Rational Principle
by G.E Waldo
Summary: Summary: WARNING! AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.
1. Chapter 1

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Rational Principle

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. **Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

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For he who can be, and therefore is, another's and he who participates in rational principle enough to apprehend, but not to have, such a principle, is a slave by nature. Whereas the lower animals cannot even apprehend a principle; they obey their instincts. And indeed the use made of slaves and of tame animals is not very different; for both with their bodies minister to the needs of life.

Aristotle.

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"Therefore some men are by nature, unable to grasp rational principle, and it is expedient, that is - we are _behooved_ to keep them tamed under hand for their good and ours; to protect and care for them and in return as masters our needs are also seen to. There are, as there always is, scattered factions of beliefs contrary to this reason; men who would believe that just allowing the universe to unfold as it should is a viable alternative to rational principle. To, as it were, let things fall where they may. But suppose the universe wishes man to fall where he may. To fall; to lie down and not get up gain. If the universe chose to instill in man the desire to survive and excel his original programming, then I chose, as I know most of you would, the rational principle of life, of struggle, of living to the fullest in the most beneficial -and rational - way for the good of all men. For their collective future.

"Once upon a time, men were pulled along roads in carts via the brute strength of animals. Yet man handled the reigns, controlled the beast. Now we are all aware that men are men and beasts are beasts, and the brute strengths we utilize in our modern age is, for the most part, by the hand of other humans. Are we then all so equal in industry, because we appear the same, or similar? If both were to steer the car in a direction of their choosing, would the car even move? My employer, the Governor, forbids it. I would fail to arrive at work and soon lose my job."

A small, polite round of laughter was allowed to rise and fall, and then he continued.

"How then am I to feed those under me? My family? My workers? Someone must take the lead in this world. Some must follow others. Some must follow all. When we consider the result of what historians have named Nature's Armageddon, and the disastrous and lingering after-shocks of food and fuel shortages, chronic drought in some areas, repeated flooding in others, over-population where billions are crowded into ever smaller livable lands, we know this to be true. Controlled family sizes on every continent are Law, are reason, are rational."

Doctor James Wilson stopped for a moment to brush dark bangs loosened with sweat off his forehead, took a sip of water and adjusted his reading glasses. Behind the lenses, brown eyes studied the notes his astute staff writer had prepared for him. "I am a doctor of Oncology, I am also a Senator and a member of the ruling Areopagus Party. I am currently not an owner of servants, but then I live alone and have almost no need for familial or enthralled support. However, I still believe in the creed of master/worker. It has become fundamental to mankind's survival. It has, by _nature_, come about; an evolutionary process and one not based on race or ethnic origin, or even religion, but by necessity. Base, raw, crude human survival. That is why, by law, all workers are to be treated well, in rational equality within their worker caste. The principles of survival, the ideology of love, and the reality of what the human race is facing, all hang in delicate balance. Let us assure we keep the balance for our children's future. So they, and master and worker, will _have_ one."

He readjusted his glasses as the lights in the large hall went up. "Now I have time for a few questions."

An overweight gray-haired woman years his senior stood up. "Doctor Wilson. What are your thoughts on the continuing auctioning of workers? This practise has gained some support from local politicians. If Rational Principle dictates workers be treated as equals within their caste, then why are many masters adopting this out-dated practise of barter and trade? Selling workers does not lend to the principle of equality among their caste. They instead become less workers and part of familial survival, than goods on the open market."

Doctor Wilson cleared his throat nervously. There were no notes for this part. "If you mean financial support from local politicians, or public moral support, then I disagree with you. As a Senator I am unaware of any local support of the illegal practice of, not worker adoption and support, but slavery - if slavery is to what you are referring. However, there have always been those who flout the law, and so its principles designed to benefit not just the individual - themselves - but the whole of society. But I know in my district, these sorts of practices will not be tolerated, and we have taken measures to rout them out when or if any are discovered. Next question."

A shorter, younger, black fellow with the looks of an idealist stood. "I am Doctor Chapman. I run CRRAW, the Center for the Rescue and Re-adoption of Abandoned Workers. Surely you don't deny the existence of this problem? Of abandonment? Workers, once their useful strength is diminished, or when they become too sick, or when they are injured badly enough that they can no longer work, are being turned out onto the street. Rational Principle makes it illegal for them to live autonomously, so if they are unable to find their way back into an adoption agency, or to a sympathetic shelter, they starve and suffer. Our great Rational Principle makes laws to protect them, and then fails to uphold the means by which they might benefit from that law, namely, support at the most basic level, when they are at their most vulnerable. How do you reconcile this discrepancy among master and worker, or even among worker to worker, since abandonment makes it clear that not all workers end up as equals to their fellow workers. Abandonment itself is as much a human rationale' when it comes to survival as the institution of the Worker Caste was."

Doctor Wilson paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. The lights were hot on his face and he was beginning to perspire heavily. "As a senator, as a human being who desires that all workers have equality under their caste, I do not and will _never_ support the "rationale'", as you termed it, of the abandonment of a worker. Nor do I support the _master_ who abandons his or her family-sworn worker. When we discover these law-breakers, we deal with them according to law. I only thank those generous organizations within my district, within the whole of the North American Union, who recognize the problem and who work tirelessly to intervene in such unfortunate occurrences."

Several more people put up their hands, others stood.

But Doctor Wilson was gathering his notes. "I'm sorry, I have no more time for questions. I leave you with Professor Mateista, who will answer any further questions in my stead. Thank you."

Wilson walked passed Mateista with a nod of his head. His political assistant, a young blonde-haired man with hope in his eyes, handed him his coat and he slipped it on. His left arm got caught in the sleeve as it was partially turned inside-out. With fading patience, Doctor Wilson forced it through, scolding his assistant for the sloppy care of his things. The assistant apologized and meekly followed him out to his waiting limousine. His driver, a slim attractive woman appropriately attired in a neat, black suit and hat, opened the rear passenger door for him. His assistant climbed into a second car, a black, four door sedan. the two vehicles pulled out of the Sports Coliseum parking lot into afternoon traffic.

Doctor Wilson leaned back against the soft leather and closed his eyes with a sigh.

His driver glanced in the rear-view mirror. Her employer appeared haggard, but he had not fallen asleep. "Would you like me to close the divider, sir. Or is there anything you need?" She had a bit of a crush on the good looking Senator Wilson.

Wilson shook his head back and forth once, the back of his neck getting a small massage from the firm head-cushion. "A new, kind and more decent nation would be nice, I think." The joke fell flat, but it was not designed to illicit laughter anyway. "How about a drink, Reena?" He said, his voice quickly fading from over-use.

"Certainly." All Reena needed to do was push a button and a few feet in front of Senator Wilson, a tray appeared. Reena had anticipated his needs and three fingers of good Scotch stood waiting in an expensive crystal tumbler. Wilson drank back a full finger and sighed again. Reena was an excellent worker.

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Senator Wilson entered his Doctor's office. Though his oncology practice was largely overseen and run by his partners, he did like to drop in now and then. It felt good to get away from the daily weight of his political responsibilities and simply help ordinary everyday citizens for a few hours. It was also a relief to be involved with something, even something as insidious as cancer, that did not tell lies. Cancer was a horrible thing, but it spoke the truth of itself with stark brutality. You could see it, feel, even smell it, and you knew what you were fighting and fighting for. Therefore you could attack it and deny it existence with a clean conscience. None would argue you were doing it for votes or special favors. Political maneuvering, back-door deals, and special interest groups had no part in this.

Doctor Reginald Juan entered, and Wilson welcomed him with a smile. "Hey, Reggie. What's up?"

"Senator-"

"-James. How many time do I have to ask you to call me James? Here I'm a doctor, not a senator."

"Right." Sorry."

Reggie was an attractive man of medium height. His large, green eyes and olive skin made his ethnic origins difficult to pin down, and Reggie liked to make a game of it, refusing to let people in on where his parents might have hailed. Given the ever increasing ethnic diversity of the world's populations, Reggie could have very well hailed from White Horse. Wilson nodded but knew his insistence that Reggie use his first name wouldn't last more than a week. Reggie always agreed, and then went right back to calling him by his political title.

"I took a chance you might be in today. I was hoping you could see a patient for me. I need to leave early."

"Uh, sure I can do that. What's going on, or do you mind me asking?"

"I don't mind. I'm putting in a few volunteer hours down at the shelter. A whole batch of Caste were brought in last night. Some of them are very badly off."

Though Wilson wouldn't have stepped into one of the shelters to save his own life (the shelters that weren't supposed to need to exist), he admired those who did. For him, the very presence of worker shelters in his district reminded him of the areas of the government he worked for who had utterly failed to protect its under-class citizens. Though workers had no written legal status as citizens, they were still people, and he hated that so many were being ill-treated. "Good for you, Reg'."

"I really wish you'd come with me some time, Senator. We could use another pair of hands."

Wilson looked up at his good and kind partner in medicine. "Yeah, uh, sorry. I just can't. Too many things on my calendar."

"Right. I understand. But if you don't mind me saying, James, it could go a long way in gaining a few more votes next round of elections. You're a good Senator, I'd hate to see that Rob Thomas sitting in your chair."

He was probably right. Rob Thomas, a hard-lining "Man of the Principle'" was gaining popularity among the most elite classes of citizenry. He was close to giving Senator Wilson, who was more of an idealist, a run for his money the next election. Wilson studied his pen for a few seconds, not meeting his partner's eyes. "Well, I'll think about it."

Over the next few weeks, Rob Thomas' campaign gained more speed. they were now neck and neck in the polls, and Wilson reluctantly saw the need to up his political anti. At the urging of his campaign manager, Wilson called his publicist. "Peter, I need you to start running announcements that I'll be volunteering my doctor skills at local worker shelters now and again. Try to make the announcements come across as, I don't know, _accidental_ slips-of-the-tongue, so at least it won't look like I'm trying to curry votes."

After a few more minutes of talk, Wilson hung up and called his partner, Reggie Jaun, at home. "Reggie? Uh, look, when's the next time you'll be volunteering at that shelter of yours? Yeah, I thought it over and I'd like to join you one night, say, next week. Maybe I can be of some use after all." Wilson rattled his cup of pencils with restless fingers. "Thursday? That would be fine I think. About seven? Okay, that works." Wilson had a thought. "Um, would you mind picking my up at home? Great. See you then."

It would not do to arrive at a worker shelter in a government budgeted, chauffeur driven limousine. Robert Thomas would have a hey-day with that.

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The smell was only the first of many assaults on his senses that first night. The shelter was teeming to the brim with hungry, lost, injured, neglected, ragged human beings. Most had not eaten for many days. Some had been beaten and robbed of what paltry food or possessions they might have been given when their masters "released" them from "service". Most were over the age of sixty. Some younger but sick. Others injured, some badly, and unable to pull their weight any longer, were lined up in waiting rooms, tucked into wobbly chairs, or huddled on the floors. A few had been lucky, or unluckily sick enough, to have scored a fold-down cot.

The stink of blood, sweat and human waste was the over-powering, ever-pervading perfume, and Wilson knew he would either have to do his duty and then never come back, not a good option with his public numbers sinking like a stone, or quickly get used to it, if he wanted to garner more votes and beat out Thomas at the next election. Both options sucked balls because both were lose-lose in some way.

Reggie lead him to the laughably named "Emergency Room". It was just another room, but with an exit door to the filthy alley. This room was cleaner than the others but it was just as full of injured, bleeding wretches as the rest. Here several nurses and doctors of every description, did their best with limited supplies to treat the wounds and illnesses of those recently abandoned by their adoptive "families".

Wilson's head was reeling with the enormity of the problem. Reggie claimed there were several such shelters in New Jersey alone, and this one was filled with dozens of abandoned workers. "I had no idea..."

Reggie, busy bandaging a large gash on an old female's shin, looked up. "Huh?"

"I knew you said there were more than a few, but I had no idea it was this bad."

Reggie said, not without some small recrimination, "Well, I guess you don't get to this neighborhood that often."

Wilson felt suitably reprimanded. Looking around at the dregs of human life, he wondered when he would get used to the smell. "So? What do you want me to do?"

Reggie looked around at the dozens still waiting for help. "Find an injury or a fever and treat it however you can with what's here."

As simple and horrible as that? Wilson thought.

He looked around and saw a very old woman huddled against one dirty wall, clutching her right arm to her chest. Even from fifteen feet away, Wilson could see from the angle that it was broken. The area of the break was also swollen and darkened with an angry-looking red and purple bruise. Wilson was about to address the woman with kind words of assistance when he heard a series of screams, followed by the back alley door being flung open. Through it, two volunteers pushed a gurney of uncertain age. On it, strapped down, was a thin wretch of a man fighting the straps with everything he had and screaming at the top of his lungs. Wilson recognized the type of screaming. After many years of practice, some doctors learn to distinguish the volume and rhythm, and duration, of screaming, and could sometimes even reasonably guess the underlying injury.

This man was sweating buckets and thrashing. Everything was thrashing but his right leg. He was attempting, Wilson noted, to reach his leg with his strapped down hands, as though to tame it, even as it didn't jerk irrationally along with the rest of his body. Break? Doubtful, not with that level of agony. Infection? No discoloration that he could immediately see, and no significant swelling. Then what? the screaming, the pain, meant it had to be something very serious. All the other doctors were still busy with their current charges and none moved to immediately intercept and access the new admittance. It seemed to have fallen to him.

Wilson approached the gurney, but the man acted like he wasn't even there, continuing to thrash and twitch. His strength, however, was quickly waning, from his own tantrum. Small wonder, Wilson thought, as he noted the visible ribs, the bruises on his legs and torso, and the unbelievable stench of the human creature. This one had been on the streets for a good while.

Doing his best to control his stomach, Wilson bent over the man and tried to break through the man's yelling. "Hey. Calm down, now, I'm trying to help you." Several more attempts at reason had no effect. He had no assistance as the volunteers had simply walked away once their charge had been turned over to someone who, to them, looked like a doctor. On his own, Wilson finally just took the mans' head between his un-gloved hands and shouted directly into his face. "Hey! Shut up now. I'm here to help you, okay?"

The man quieted down a little, but tears of agony slipped between his tightly shut eyes, as he tried to work silently work through whatever was causing him such agony.

Wilson moved to examine the leg, leaving the straps in place. At first look, there appeared to be nothing out-of-sorts, physically. Wilson placed his palm against the man's calf, trying to determine where the break, if it was a break, was located. The leg felt cool. Odd, considering another drought-filled summer was upon them, making the room sweltering. Wilson felt the opposite, the left, leg. Normal body temperature. Sweaty, even. He placed his hand on the right one again. Cool and, near the feet, almost cold.

Wilson pressed his thumb into the flesh of the man's right big toe and watched. Very little blood return. Very poor circulation, but only the right leg. Wilson gently lifted the right leg and tried to bend the foot down to its natural angle of extension. A scream of agony burst from the man's lips. Wilson quickly put the led down and used more soothing words to try and calm him once again. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again."

All he got for an answer was the man turning his head away and grimacing. The pain seemed to have stymied his ability to verbally articulate anything. Wilson looked at his first patient of the day. Clot. Had to be. A bad one. Or maybe even an aneurysm. Very bad, and very damaging to the muscles, depending on how long it might have been there. Maybe it's what caused his master to turn him out on his own. Surgery was very expensive these days, even for the well-off. Spending a fortune on a worker who might not recover anyway was seen as throwing very good money after what had turned out to be a bad investment. A sick or injured worker was a financial liability.

Wilson tried to swallow the dryness in his throat. This man needed an exploratory on his thigh. But who? Where?

He decided to seek out Reggie's advice. "My guy needs surgery."

Reggie glanced up from his delicate work of putting stitches in an old man's scalp. "We don't do that here."

Wilson thought he had heard him wrong. ""You don't do that here"?? Then where? This guy might not last another day." His leg definitely wouldn't.

"There's a shelter than specializes in surgery across town. They have a few post-operative recovery rooms, but our regular surg' is on vacation. Won't be back until next Friday."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph." Wilson wasn't given to using old-fashioned swear words, but no other expletive seemed to fit the situation. Too bad deities never appeared when they were actually needed. Floating above a grave or flashing your god-face on a tortilla rarely helped anyone. "I can do the surgery, but I need transportation."

"There is none." Reggie calmly explained while he stitched. "We have one van and we use that, when it's running, to look for injured abandon's and bring them in, or try and catch them when they're too scared to come in on their own."

Wilson rubbed his face and looked back over his shoulder to his, so far, one patient. The one he was unable to do anything for. "This is insane."

Reggie looked at his friend with sympathetic impatience. "What can I say, Senator? Welcome to New Jersey."

Wilson found a less crowded corner of the shelter and pulled out his Pan-phone, speaking into it. The device obligingly called up Reena. While he waited for her to answer, Wilson sadly observed some of the faces, their misery etching its rank portrait in his mind. The hopeless throng waited for some voluntary human kindness. For some of them, Wilson wondered if it was the first they would be receiving.

Reena answered and Wilson instructed her on where he was and to come right away. Before he hung up, an after-thought prompted him to order her to bring all of the spare blankets from the linen closets and all the food she could carry from the fridge and freezer. Also the first aid kit from the bathroom. Thinking of nothing further, Wilson hung up and spent the next hour helping a few other patients, while he waited for Reena to bring the limo'. It would appear rather tasteless for him to leave in such a luxury car from such a place filled with people who had probably never known such luxury, but it couldn't be helped. Wilson tried to make himself feel better about it in that he was using the limo to help one of the wretches under his care. As he worked, he would check on his most serious patient now and then, to ensure he was still breathing, still with the living. He was a tall, middle-aged man with gingery-brown curls, most of which were plastered to his head with sweat and grime. Wilson remembered sharp, stunningly blue irises. But mostly he remembered the look of abject suffering on his face. No one should have to live like _this_. Not even a worker.

Reena arrived and Wilson helped her distribute the supplies to the surprised and grateful look of the lead physician on site. His shock and gratitude were sadly pathetic.

Wilson had a volunteer male nurse help him carry his patient to the limo', ignoring the nurse's bemused look at the mode of Wilson's transportation. Obviously, the nurse had not recognized him. After much sweat and heavy breathing, they managed to lay the prone worker out on the rear-facing seat of the passenger compartment. Wilson seated himself in the forward facing seat. He also begged the nurse to accompany him to the Surgery Shelter, as he would need assistance if he was really going to cut into this patient's leg. The nurse agreed and they were off.

Wilson settled himself stiffly in for the ride. He felt like the hammer of Thor had been brought down in the middle of his privileged, complacent life. He felt like he was finally doing something real to help his voters, and at the same time, essentially useless amidst all that suffering. A grain of help on miles of sand.

But maybe he could at least save one poor soul within the social network that sprang from society's Rational Principle.

Wilson watched over his patient as Reena maneuvered the car through traffic. He wondered where had the man come from? And what kind of man, at one time before Nature's Armageddon had fundamentally changed all their lives, had this poor creature been?

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Part II asap


	2. Chapter 2

Rational Principle

Part II

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: WARNING! AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

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"What a mess." Doctor Wilson muttered. "Gimme' a retractor."

The younger man, untrained in the ways of the operating procedure, clumsily handed him the surgical instrument, almost dropping it. "Sorry. I only trained for heavy nursing."

Wilson nodded impatiently. Heavy nursing. That meant patient care; lifting, toting, hauling, turning, wiping, holding down, feeding. A profession that required good physical strength, human understanding, and loads of patience. He had no idea how nurses made it through each day, since they were one of the, and sometimes the most, crucial link between physicians and their patients.

While a single percentage of his mind mused over his poor, nervous assistant, Wilson kept the majority of his attention on trying to clean up his patient's ruined thigh.

"Jesus, there's a lot of dead muscle." Which meant he was going to have to cut a good third of it out. Some of the nerve endings showed damage, but there was little he could do about those. Cut them out and the man would never be able to move, or even feel, his leg again, which would mean myatrophy. Leave them in, and he would have pain but he might still have sufficient mobility; he might learn to walk again.

If he could walk, that meant he could still work and he wouldn't be consigned to living off the limited resources of the local Worker charities, not a pleasant prospect in any world. Decidedly more unpleasant in this one, where he would become a non-person. A worker unable to work. Bad enough, he thought, that the poor bastard had been sentenced to worker status after everything fell to shit. Wilson again mused what circumstances had led the authorities to label him, along with so many others, to the status of worker, and not citizen.

What was it like, he wondered, to have your citizenship and place in society stripped from you? Done for, as was the blossoming philosophy at the time, the good of all humanity. For rational reasons. For balance and the nurture of humanity. The spin-doctors had made it sound noble, almost as though the authoritative powers were doing the unlucky ones a favor. The collective saviors of mankind.

He himself had become a practicing physician at the relatively young age of 30, and a full senator two years later, a position he had held for the previous three years. This man appeared perhaps ten years his senior. Who had he been when the hammer had fallen on him?

It was several hours before Doctor Wilson had debrided all of the dead muscle tissue. There was going to be an obvious depression in the flesh of the thigh and a long train-track-like scar. Too bad. Judging by the man's other leg, it had been a beautiful thigh. Long, well developed, but smooth muscles; a mark of an all-around athlete. Like a man who had done a lot of swimming. Or running.

He left the nurse to wash and bandage up the patient, and took a step outside for some fresh air. It was passed three o'clock in the morning, and he was beyond exhausted. The soft street lights, powered down to minimum in compliance with local laws, cast a dull wash of light over the asphalt. Here, in this neighborhood, the air smelled clean and fresh. This, though not a wealthy area, was a better area than the one in which he had volunteered only hours ago. Frankly he was glad he had not had to stay there. As tired as he felt, helping this single patient in a clean operating room with sterile instruments and even an assistant, suited him just fine.

A new thought jarred him away from his own respite from discomfort and back to the patient. The patient's leg was saved and he would recover, but now what? Wilson frowned deeply. He had not thought to ask Reggie about that at all, such was the urgency of the abandoned's immediate need at the time.

Where do post-operative worker patients go when the hospitals did not accept them, and when the only one that did, the one he was standing just outside the door of, was closed because its nurses had the week off, and it's resident surgeon was all lying on a beach somewhere?

"Shit." He stepped back inside and down the hall to the single surgical theatre. "Hey, um..." Wilson snapped his fingers, trying to jump-start his short term memory. What was his nurse's name again?

"Tracey." The younger fellow answered with a trifle overlay of insulted feelings.

"Yes. Tracey, um, can you - are you able to stay here for the day and look after this guy? I've got a session in," he checked his watch, "less than five hours." Double shit.

"Well, no, I can't. I gotta' be home by six-thirty. Didn't you arrange for a day nurse? My wife has to go to work and we have a child."

Wilson scratched the back of his head, trying not to sound heavily disagreeable. "Oh." What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He paced for a few minutes, placed half a dozen calls - the first one to Reggie who did not answer, trying to find a shelter that had room to care for him, or one of the nurses to come stay. Any kind of sufficient help so his patient's needs could be taken care of until he was back on his feet. Before he even could place his calls to the shelters, he'd had to call the local call-center to get the list of numbers. In the state of New Jersey there eleven in all, seven of them in or near Princeton.

But no one had room or the hands to care full-time for a crippled worker who was going to need shelter, feeding and physical therapy for many weeks to come.

"Look, Mister Gleezon," Wilson pleaded to his second-last hope. "This patient can not care for himself. If I turn him out onto the street, he'll be infected in hours and probably dead in days."

Wilson listened, trying not to tear his hair out at the other man's reasonable explanations for why he could not admit his patient into their over-crowded worker-charity soup kitchen. "Even if I had a resident nurse, or nurses aid," Gleezon explained, "we have no place to put him. Not even a spare cot."

Wilson tried to swallow his stress. Sweat had broken out on his forehead as the hours ticked on and he had received one no after another. His heart began to race as his watched ticked over to four-thirty AM. Wilson recognized the symptoms of rising panic.

With the next, and last, number, he played the senator card, evoking the local laws under Rational Principle and how it applied to the compulsory care of all workers, all to no avail.

"I'm sorry, Senator Wilson, but we simply do not have the room or hands to take on a patient who requires full-time, across-the-board care. We're talking weeks of recovery. Did you try the Westside Worker Surgical Shelter? They have a resident physician and two nurses who deal with this sort of thing."

The very shelter the senator was currently standing in. "It's closed."

"Then I am sorry, but there's nothing we can do for him here."

"So just where am I supposed to send my patient?" His voice rose and his heart was sinking. He had reached the near dead-end, where he could see only him and his ill patient and no where to go with no one to help them. "Where in the hell do these post-op's go when there's no beds for them?" In desperation - "What's the goddamn point in providing surgery solutions when they have almost no hope of proper care and recovery?"

There was silence from his long-suffering listener. "As a senator, you ought to know the answer to that one better than me." The man said quietly.

The words were like a lightening strike to his soul, punching a hole in his assured expectations of all things Good Government, and draining it away into the night.

"Most of them are released into the care of the state, which care, as I'm sure you're already aware, is practically non-existent. Others are sent away to fend for themselves, and I imagine some of those die."

Wilson could feel the tool of the bell in his guts as his wrist watch ticked over to six AM. He had forty-five minutes left to get to session. He had a sick patient, unconscious, with a crippling injury who would possibly never walk again, helpless, and who was under his sole care. All Wilson could manage was "I see."

"It seems to me like you have a good heart, senator. I really wish I could help you."

Wilson thanked him and hung up. He called his political assistant who sounded a bit frantic at the other end. "Where are you, sir? You missed breakfast with senator Monroe, and your phone's been on voice-mail for the last hour."

Wilson rubbed his face. He'd forgotten all about his breakfast appointment with the vexatious Monroe. "Look, I'm not going to be in today. Cancel all my appointments and - "

" - Cancel?? Today is _Friday_, senator." He squeaked, his breath getting quicker through the phone, his asthma-beaten lungs sounding ragged because of his very trying employer. "Yourself and about eight other senators are having lunch with the _President_." From the stress level of his voice, his assistant sounded like he was about to pop. "Your plane leaves right after session for DC."

Of all the goddamn, double shitting luck. Wilson gave furiously to think. "Look, I'll make lunch, okay. I'll make the plane, but everything else - cancel. Okay? You can calm down now, Marcus. And for god's sake use your inhaler before you faint."

Wilson waited a moment or two while his assistant did just that. In the faint background, Wilson could hear the young man inhaling his medicine twice. When he came back to the phone, he sounded better.

"All better? Good." Wilson had given way to furious thought. "I need you to call one of those day nurse, no make it a twenty-four hour nursing institution, the ones where they hire them out - what? Never mind why, just do it and tell them to meet me at my home in an hour. Got it? No, Marcus, it's personal. If they need specifics, tell them who I am and that it's an emergency. No, I'm fine. Stop asking questions, I'm pretty sure I hired you to be my business assistant, not my mother."

He hung up and together he and the nurse managed to wrestle his sleeping patient back into the limousine, where his ever patient worker chauffeur awoke from her long nap, and started the engine. Lastly, Wilson gathered up a few supplies from the broken-down surgery, bandages, antiseptic, pain-killers, and two or three bags of IV glucose, and tossed them on the rear seat. climbing in beside the small collection, he settled his dead-tired body in the seat again with his single charge lying across the black leather opposite him, oblivious to everything. Wilson was glad that at least Reena didn't ask questions.

He swore he'd never volunteer again. It wasn't worth the trouble.

-

-

When he opened his eyes, a brown face was floating above him awash in white.

"Well hello blue eyes."

The dream lady came and went once or twice, and whenever he felt he had soiled himself, efficient, cold hands cleaned and changed him. He had no idea where he was or why he couldn't move.

"Go back to sleep, handsome. Time enough you'll be up and things will be back to normal. In the meantime, blue eyes, I'd sleep if I were you."

He obeyed.

-

-

He awoke again later, groggy and in pain, and someone whom he could only guess was his nurse, greeted him with a cool hand to his forehead and a word of warning.

"Don't try and move too much yet, honey, your incision could split." Then she brought him a small sip of water, lifted his head so he could drink, and made fresh sheets appear under him.

Twenty years of experience under her belt, his nurse efficiently changed the bedding with him in it, gentling rolling her patient's prone body, hardly jostling the bandaged leg at all.

His foggy mind heard her talking now and then. "The senator will be home late this afternoon. Until then I'm afraid your stuck with me. But you'll be fine, honey. You just sleep now." She kindly informed him more than once.

Her patient, beads of sweat braking out on his forehead, slowly returned to consciousness. With it, pain settled down on him and refused to budge, making it impossible to pay attention to the routine caregiver/patient chatter of the professional nurse - he remembered such tripe well. Years ago. "Hurts." He mumbled.

Straightening the sheets, making the corners tight with military precision - "I know it hurts, blue eyes. Just relax."

_Idiot!_ He couldn't open his eyes yet. The pain seemed to have crawled all the way to his skull, too. "I need a shot of morphine." He said, barely above a whisper.

"You need to rest." She intoned, responding with the oft-mouthed words of a nurse well-experienced in the ways of patients and their complaints.

The man finally managed to crack his eyes open, getting a glimpse of the room he was in, bathed in soft light, and of the woman herself. At least she had sense enough to have kept the heavy curtains drawn. She was a tall woman with short, tight curls piled on her head, framing a friendly henna colored face.

"Well, good morning." She said when she saw him open his eyes and look around. "I'm nurse Sheridan. Senator Wilson hired me for the day to take care of you." She explained.

Her patient blinked once or twice, trying to sort through everything that was assaulting his drugged and weakened senses, other than the never-ending pain. It was a large room full of rich furnishings and smelled faintly like deodorizer and leather - like the inside of a new car. The bed he was on was not any standard hospital bed but a king-sized, thickly layered dream-cloud of comfort and warmth.

_Senator?_ "Where am I?"

Nurse Sheridan finished pulling at the sheets and blankets. "It sure is easier to change sheets when the bed's big enough to roll you around." She said. Then adding "You're in Senator Wilson's house. He's a doctor. He operated on you."

A senator operated on me? That didn't make a lot of sense to him. Why had he needed an operation? He could barely remember where he had been since what felt like days and days ago. But he was in pain, that as a no-brainer and it had something to do with his leg. Something very bad had happened to him, but he couldn't remember what. "What operation?" His voice still wasn't working to its full capacity, and he continued to produce only whispers.

"Your leg. Bad injury. I'm not sure what exactly, but you're going to be off your feet for a while. You ought to sleep now."

He was about to make several more clarifying inquiries, but after a moment realized from the sudden quiet that the nurse had left the room. Two or three weak calls for her to come back produced no result.

-

-

Lunch was shaping up to be a long, dull affair, and President Osuna was late. Finally, after thirty-five minutes of postponement, a dark-skinned man entered the room and announced: "Gentlemen and Ladies - Misses Katsu Osuna. The President."

They all stood in customary honor while the president entered, a tiny gray-haired woman in a perfectly tailored navy-blue skirt and buttoned up jacket. She was trailed by the announcement man, evidently a presidential staff member. The president offered profuse apologies, urging them to please sit, order their meals and enjoy themselves.

The restaurant was lavishly furnished, prohibitively expensive for anyone other than the most wealthy, and closed for the day because, well, the President was dining in with some of her senators. The most attractive and experienced servers stood by waiting patiently, as they had done for over half an hour.

Once the president had placed her food order, Wilson gave his order to a petite red head and ordered another cappuccino to help him stay awake. He had been fortunate enough to be seated only three chairs down from the president's seat at the head of the table. It was a lucky draw. He was a young, relatively new member of the senate, so such a seat meant it was either a mistake or a few someone's had failed to show up for lunch, and it was too late to alter the seating arrangements. He figured probably the latter.

As it was, he was sitting with six other senators, men and women, most with many more years of politic-ing than he. The president liked to, eventually, get to know the members of the senate, so this would be Wilson's personal introduction to President Katsu Osuna, and her assistant, Mister Kaul who, the announcement man, with whom he had spoken to on the phone once.

After twenty-five minutes of small talk, when the lunch orders began to arrive - the president's first of all - Osuna took up her fork and motioned for her senators to do the same. Mister Kaul sat directly to her left. Wilson was two seats down from him.

He'd had a few topics he had planned on broaching with the president, but for now, it was time to enjoy a meal and some like-minded company. The roasted chicken and freshly steamed vegetables were excellent, and Wilson lost himself for a few moments in simply savoring a terrific lunch and listening to little snippets of the conversations occurring around him.

Every-so-often he stole discreet glances at the president. He'd had no idea how very tiny a woman she was. It struck him now that, when she presented announcements or speeches to the senate or to the nation, that she probably stood on a stool or platform so she could make use of the podium and mike with comfort. And so people could see more than the top of her carefully coiffured head. Her suit jacket had tiny pink roses embroidered in the collar. She wore a plain, gold wedding band though he knew her husband had passed on during her first campaign. And her demeanor and manners all suggested a woman of breeding and taste. Seated at the head of the table, just tall enough to comfortably use the silver utensils and reach her tea cup, (providing the president at any time with a booster seat would have been a boorish affront to her, and no doubt would have sparked public outrage among her constituents), she appeared a meek little housewife, ready to bow to any decision made by any man or woman around her who used sufficient volume.

But Wilson knew that any such similar first impression was grossly misguided. Katsu Osuna was a good-hearted but iron-willed woman. Highly intelligent and shrewd. She knew exactly where her mind was, and understood precisely how to use the presidential institution to evoke specific actions so to produce results in relation to those issues foremost in her conscience, and closest to her heart. She was a lioness. A Matriarch respected world-wide. If the North American Union had royals, Osuna would be the queen.

"Senator Wilson?"

Wilson was shaken from his quiet reverie to find the president was addressing him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see all the faces of the other senators turned directly toward him. With horror, he wondered how many times the president had addressed him before he actually heard her.

"Oh, yes, please excuse me, President Osuna, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I had rough morn-..." A lie was no way to begin a relationship with the president of the North American Union. "..I had a rather night long, I'm afraid. My sincere apologies. Would you please repeat your question?"

Katsu Osuna smiled kindly at him. "It's not important. I simply wondered how you are enjoying your meal?"

It was probably her custom to make the little, ordinary,everyday inquiries of the state and comfort of her staff and senators. A woman of true refinement and charm.

"Excellent." Wilson said hurriedly, so as not to cut into her time more than necessary. "Excellent - tender. Delicious." It really was. He recalled with a small pang of shame that the man upon whom he had operated last night had probably not enjoyed such a meal for a decade at least, if ever. He was a senator living a life of opulence and privilege.

But Katsu Osuna was not done with him. "I'm sorry to hear that. And yet you came to my lunch today, Senator Wilson." She observed, gracefully acknowledging the physical strain it was putting him under. "Despite the exhaustion you must be feeling, you came anyway." She said, her voice deeply grateful. Osuna had not only intelligence and wit, she was a woman of the old, social graces. "Forgive my nosiness, but what-ever would have kept you up all night long? I trust your family is all right?"

Wilson was suddenly very glad Marcus had insisted he attend the president's lunch. Just meeting the woman, and having her caring gaze washing over him, was worth every hour of sleep he was missing. "I'm not married, actually, Missus President. I had to help someone." There, that was enough of his tedious evening's activities.

"Who?"

Katsu Osuna was a curious woman as well.

"Um," He cleared his throat. How could he put this without sounding like he was grandstanding the few measly hours he had put in as a shelter volunteer? He didn't want to sound like he was blowing his own horn to the president. She frowned on braggarts.

"A colleague of mine, a physician needed a hand with a patient." Sharing the glory, that was the ticket. "He had injured his leg very badly and needed an operation. It took most of the night." Among other things.

Osuna looked at him for a moment and Wilson feared he may have gone on too long with his mouth. Perhaps she was sizing him up and found him wanting in matters of humility. "I had no idea you were a doctor as well, Senator." Osuna rose from her seat and walked the few steps to where he was seated. Everyone, once they noticed the president had moved, scrambled to their feet.

Osuna waved them all to sit again, then turned her attention to the young senator who had forgone sleep to help a stranger. The senator next to Wilson had rapidly vacated his seat, and moved his plate, so the president could speak to him in comfort. This gesture she appeared to take in stride, though she did offer him a polite nod of thanks.

Wilson thought he would stop breathing. The president had sat down beside him and was looking into his eyes like he was the newest and most curious of creatures. "I'm afraid you've made me very curious, Senator. What sort of doctor are you?"

"I'm an oncologist. My partners, mostly, run the practice now."

"So you are also a surgeon. And this operation occurred in a hospital?"

He discretely wiped the feel of chicken grease from his mouth. "Um. No, not exactly. It's rather complicated, Missus President. Kind of a long story."

"I'd like to hear it sometime." She said. Withdrawing a small rectangle from her jacket pocket, she handed him a gold-embossed, one by two inch business card. On it was the name and private business phone number of her personal political aid - Mister Kaul. "I'd like you to call me some time next week. Mister Kaul can arrange a day and time, so that we can enjoy a private conversation."

Wilson stared down at the card like a mute while the president stood up. She placed one, white gloved hand on his shoulder. "Please call, Senator Wilson. If you do not, I shall be very disappointed."

Wilson suddenly felt like he was six years old and looking up at his Grade One principal towering over him. Her very presence and carriage the epitome of authority and expectation. "Oh, yes, yes - certainly I...yes I'll phone, Missus Presi...yes, ah-of course." He babbled.

But she had returned to her seat to resume her own lunch, which had been kept warm for her beneath a battery-operated, heated lid.

-

-

Wilson returned home to shouts coming from upstairs. The day nurse he had hired was very sternly saying things, and the patient was shouting other things back. Wilson caught an obscenity or two from the man's voice-box. Not even shrugging out of his overcoat, he raced up the stairs.

"What is going on!?" He asked as he entered the room.

The nurse looked around at him with some relief. Then addressed the patient who was giving her so much trouble. "Ah - here's the doctor!" She said with triumph. "Now he'll deal with you and you'll understand why you need to Lie. Back. Down!" To Wilson she said - "He refuses to do as I say, Senator. He's going to tear his stitches."

Wilson walked to the bedside of the recalcitrant patient and threw back the blankets, first wanting to ensure the stitches had not been torn. Beneath the loose gauze, they looked fine. He turned to the patient who appeared determined to get out of bed. "You can't walk on that leg, so I'm not sure where it is you think you're going."

"I'm going to try to find something to numb the throbbing," He snarled, his brow beaded with sweat, his eyes full of pain. "'Cause this idiot nurse of yours thinks "it's not that bad"."

Wilson recognized the signs of acute pain in the man's eyes and the tension that appeared to have invaded every muscle. His hands were trembling. "I'll give you another shot of morphine." To the nurse he said. "Nurse, get that ready, please." Then to the patient. "If I promise to leave something stronger for the nurse to give you tomorrow, will that be enough to get you to lie down again? Please?"

The nurse brought the syringe. The patient stopped Wilson's hand before he could administer it into his IV line. "That's not enough." He said.

Puzzled on how the man could know that. "It'll have to be. We have to ration what there is." He injected the analgesic and it's effect was almost immediate. The injured man lay back down again with a sigh. His trembling stopped.

Wilson was curious. "How did you know the morphine had been measured in sub-standard units?"

The man closed his eyes, his tense muscles turning to water with the immense relief of lessened pain. "I used to be a doctor."

-

-

TBC asap


	3. Chapter 3

Rational Principle Part III

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: WARNING! AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. This story will eventually be H/W. Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

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Senator Wilson finished a frugal breakfast of two slices of toast and one egg; about all he ever allowed himself. A full stomach dulled his thinking and though there was no session on Sunday (to allow for those more religiously inclined politicians to attend their devotional church or temple of choice), it was a day he tried to keep busy doing those few things for himself that he still had time for - playing tennis, or going for a run. He also enjoyed a good game of pool now and then and had purchased a professional sized billiard table for himself, placing it in the spacious library, although he knew few people who liked to play. Surrounding it, red cherry-wood shelves held a reservoir of books, most of which he had at one time or another spent hours reading or at least flipping through. His political duties and the part-time work involved with his medical practice now made such a time-consuming hobby a part of his past.

Senator spent a very pleasant day on the phone with his mother, strolling the fields near his suburban mansion, and sipping very good whiskey on his back deck, watching the sun slowly dip to the horizon. It was early fall, and the sun was taking its sweet time.

Nurse Sheridan had appeared with regular updates on the condition of his post-operative patient, and Wilson was glad to hear that the man, who had claimed to have at one time been a doctor, was doing fine.

Only minutes after he last report, to his irritation Sheridan appeared again. "Doctor Wilson," She said, using his medical title this time, "May I leave early? The night nurse will be here in under two hours, and the patient is asleep. He shouldn't wake up until well after six now, so there'll be nothing for you to do. You see, my sister is having her wedding anniversary tonight, and I was hoping to - "

"-Sure. No problem. Go ahead." Wilson did not want to hear all the in's and out's of Nurse Sheridan's sister's anniversary party. And his doctor's ego was just a teeny bit bruised at her suggestion that he might not be able to function for a few hours without her around. He was a physician. He could watch one, sleeping patient by himself just fine. Even better. "Thanks Amy." What was there to do, after all?

Sheridan made a quick exit, and Wilson allowed himself another twenty-five minutes of sweet silence before heaving himself to his feet. He supposed he ought to check on the fellow, just in case.

-  
He awoke to hot pokers of pain firing up and down his leg. A million mile an hour looping track of agony had started just below his navel and was radiating all the way down to his toes, making them curl. Then, with teasiong cruelty, it would subside for a few seconds before starting all over again.

He wanted to sit up; was desperate to move, but the pain cut through his will like a hot knife through whipped cheese. After many deep breaths, he managed to push and shove the throbbing down into a corner of his mind, just far enough, that he could get his arms under him and shove his upper body into a more-or-less sitting position. The very thick, soft mattress made maintaining that upright pose difficult, as the palms of his hands sank two or three inches into the down-filled pillow-top.

The sudden movement also made him nauseous, and he leaned over to his right, letting the pathetic contents of his stomach spew all over the fine, starched sheets and the white fabric-softened comforter, where it dribbled down onto the carpeting. He wiped his mouth on a clean corner of sheet, and made a cursory examination of his surroundings. He couldn't clearly recall the last few days, other than the memory of constant pain, or even remember how he had got here.

Here was...where? The vague impression of a dark-haired man and a round-faced nurse passed across his memory. Small unfocused images that drifted by like rain clouds in a wind, then disappeared. The room itself, though un-foggy, was dark and quiet. A soft light had been left on in the hallway only, and the sun outside was turning from orange to red, giving everything in the room the color cast of dried blood.

His doctor mind stepped up, still there and as active as ever despite many years of stripped citizenship and forced servitude. It told him to throw back the covers, and he did, so to visually examine his leg. The bandage was professional and clean. He was very curious to see the stitching job beneath but didn't want to expose the incision to the dangers of infection any more than necessary, and left it alone.

Whoever had helped him, he was grateful, but it was time to leave. He had no intention of being delivered back to an adoption agency, or forced to eat corned beef stewed with noodles in one of the governments under-funded Worker Shelters. After his last so-called "family" had tossed him out, he had taken his chances on the street, and had been doing...perhaps not well, but holding his own.

Until a terrible pain in his leg had brought him down fast and hard to the concrete in a back-alley, gasping for breath and shouting at the impossible screaming above his proximal joint.  
Trying to control his own reaction and not attract attention proved impossible as the agony intensified with every passing minute. Crawling into a double-thick discarded box that must have at one time contained a stove or a dishwasher, he kept out of sight to wait for the agony to pass. Only it didn't and when minutes had stretched to hours, he dragged himself to his feet and hobbled away into the alley, looking in vain for some kind of assistance that did not involve anyone among the Citizenry. Lurching down countless alley-ways, he finally could go no further and once again collapsed behind a Chinese restaurant garbage bin. A shelter van had found him still there, the following afternoon, unconscious. That was the tale the man at the shelter had told him. Who that man was he had no idea, nor did he care.

He could see nothing in the room that might serve as a crutch or a cane. Not a stellar beginning to his get-away. Listening for any sound that signaled the returning steps of his nurse, the only face he did remember with any clarity, he eased himself to the edge of the bed, at first making certain to put none of his weight on his bandaged thigh. Holding himself up on his left leg, and with on one hand wrapped firmly around the curved, wooden bed post, he touched his right toes to the carpet, and was met with a searing bolt of pain. He bit his lip to avoid crying out.

Just as he was about to try once more, a figure appeared in the doorway. "Whoa - hey, where do you think you're going?" The man, tall and dark haired, rushed over to him and without asking, took his right arm, draping it over his own shoulder. A slim left hand was tucked in behind and around his waist, and the helpful fellow began maneuvering him back into bed.

He wanted to protest, or maybe punch the guy out, but even the small amount of energy he had put out in just trying to stand had heavily taxed his strength, and he was sweating and breathless. He had no choice but to allow the man to lie him down again. Even if he'd had four arms, he couldn't have fought brown-haired, slim guy.

The slim fellow of the brown hair and (now that he could see him up close and clearly), brown eyes, spoke. His voice had a professional lean, yet was spiced with just a savory amount of personality. "I'd take you on a pony-ride if you really wanted, but shampooing the carpets gets awfully expensive."

Bad joke. He wanted to tell him to keep his day job, but sleep was trying to pull him back under its warm, dark blanket.

He was losing the fight to stay awake. In minutes, the fellow had already discovered the soiled bedcovers, removed them and covered him up again with a clean sheet and quilt. This one had autumn leaves on it, and the colors of brown, gold and yellow filled his vision down to the bump where his toes were. This quilt was filled with down, too, and it was so airy and light, he could feel no pressure on his hurt leg at all. And as much as he wanted to hate him for doing so, even when the fellow checked to ensure he had not dislodged his catheter, he didn't protest or barrage him with clever, unflattering names.

The dark-haired man leaned over him. Tiny dots of darker brown freckled the brown irises that stared down, a look that held no malice. Mild curiosity perhaps, but they were nice eyes, he decided, and then silently mocked his own emotionally unguarded moment.

"What's your name, sir?"

Sir?? "Who wants to know?" His eyelids were at half mast, and keeping them there was a game he was swiftly losing. At least his mouth still worked.

"I'm Doctor Wilson." The man offered, then quickly adding - "James."

"Th'nurse said ya' were a sen'tor."

"Yes."

Should he introduce himself? What was the point? As soon as he was strong enough, he was going to walk out of here and not look back. But the man had saved his leg. Maybe even his life.

That was stretching it. "Greg...Doctor Housthe." He was slurring his words now, so exhausted he felt drunk.

"Nice to finally meet you, Greg-doctor-Housthe."

The man was actually smiling at his own attempt at gentle humor.

"When can I get outta' here?" No slur that time, funny man!

Senator-Doctor James Wilson stood straight and gathered up the bile-soaked bedding from the floor with a small grunt. "When you're well."

-  
"Heard you got a stray staying with you."

Wilson's spoon-full of delicious caramel mousse stopped half-way to his mouth.

Of course Monroe would find out about that. Wilson forced the gooey stuff into his mouth and took a moment to organize what thoughts he was going to let slip for the next few minutes. Monroe had informants everywhere. Little, greasy eyes tucked into in everyone's political and personal business. His background was ethically seedy at best, but he was the man who had been most influential during his own campaign to join the senate, afterward helping him secure government funding on bills in which few others had any interest. The continued and much debated legal status of worker caste equality, for one. The continued funding for the legal programs already in play to end the illegal auctioning or trade of workers, for another.

So when Monroe wanted to meet for lunch and talk, Wilson almost never said no. Whenever he could find a reasonable excuse to bow out though, he ran with it. Monroe had been of assistance to him in the past, but his over-all political views got under Wilson's sensitive skin, making him itch. And Monroe's personal opinions rubbed Wilson's personal preferences the wrong way. Monroe was a secret bigot of the highest order. In public, he was a man of all men and women. In private, if you weren't privileged, white and married to an underwear model who read bible stories to little kids during church on Sunday, you were somehow wanting. After an hour spent in Monroe's presence, he felt like a cat who's fur had been brushed backwards.

Wilson had always been extra careful not to mention his own particular appetites when it came to the opposite or, rather, the same sex. And he made a point never to discuss religion other than to make some non-committal remark such as "I'm sure God will sort it out in the end when he gets time. In the meantime, here's to Northern Union freedom of belief, speech and orientation." It was a common toast among those who would have others believe they were modern and open-minded.

"Jaun needed a hand one night, and I got stuck hosting one of his Most Saved." He used his best sarcastic voice. A good enough subterfuge, he hoped, to convince Monroe that the patient was a one-time thing, and a huge pain in his political ass to boot. Having non-sponsored workers in your home was a touchy legal issue, and one currently under review.

But even by design Wilson felt slimy when-ever he drifted too close to Monroe's way of thinking. Where Monroe was concerned, he was always dancing on a thin line. An indentured old boy like Morris Monroe was a solid support in times of political need. "I've got a nurse looking after the problem." Wilson hoped he sounded casually disinterested enough that Monroe wouldn't seek anything further. For some reason, he felt the need to protect this particular worker. It was illogical, but the guy had been through enough, hadn't he?

Monroe wasn't finished. "You know, getting too close to that sort of thing - all this Save the Worker thing - a much as it might curry favor among certain voters, could back-fire."  
Wilson was well aware who his voters were.

"I recognize that, Senator, and I appreciate your advice. As usual, I know you're looking out for what's best for me. I never forget that." And Monroe's first focus as well - looking out for what's best for the elite of who he was a long-time member, even before the world had changed.

In other words, Wilson thought, those citizens who could legally vote to keep their elite status intact and away from the unwashed hordes. Voting rights, cleverly enough, did not include workers. Only citizen's could vote.

"Just trying to keep your father's wishes in mind."

Monroe and his father had been long-time fishing buddies. "I know." Wilson answered. "Say, what are your views on Park Reclamation?" Wilson managed to steer the conversation away from talk of his temporary house-guest for the remainder of their lunch.

-  
Nurse Sheridan was near her wits end. "The doctor says you must stay in bed."

"I'm a doctor, and my prescription is to get the hell out of here."

At the sound of the front door, she stomped from the room, and confronted her employer half-way down the stairs. "Senator! You must speak to your patient. He still refuses to do anything I say." She threw an angry arm back up the stairs to the source of her daily misery. "He's been hobbling around using the broom as a crutch. He threw the sandwich I made him back at me. And he keeps..." She paused, "saying inappropriate things." Her blush suggested the subject of those inappropriate things Nurse Sheridan did not want to reveal her employer, much less a senator. "He doesn't need a nurse as much as he needs a psychiatrist."

Wilson tried to calm her with a soothing noise but she was having none of it. After only a week and a half of dealing with his patient, in her eyes his status as Senator had dramatically faded. "Excuse me, Senator, but don't patronize me. I may be only a nurse but I have two degrees. I refuse to be abused by a patient I am trying to help - or anyone else." The implication being that not even senators were allowed to poo-poo her concerns, or dismiss her upset with a ridiculous and ultimately futile attempt at charm.

Wilson tucked his hands into his suit-pants pockets, distorting the smooth line of his best suit. "No, of course not Amy - Nurse Sheridan. I completely understand your position. A man like him takes..." He looked for the right word, one that would boost her ego without looking like he was slathering on the sweet-butter, "great experience. Which is why I hired you."

Ignoring the flattery, she gathered her coat from the railing and began pulling on a pair of brown leather gloves.

With horror Wilson realized she was leaving. He was going to be stuck dealing with the guy on his own for the whole evening and night. "Um, where are you going?" Maybe she was just thinking of hopping down to the store for a quart of skim milk, he hoped, but there were no corner stores within five miles, and cook had brought in a four-gallon not three days previous.

"You're not leaving?"

Wrapping a thin scarf around her curls - "I certainly am." she replied. "I quit. Nothing is worth this sort of abuse." Sheridan marched passed him and down the last few stairs, the low hard heels of her nurses shoes thumping out her meaning. Wilson had to scramble to get ahead of her.

He heard the sorry pleading in his own voice. Not worthy of a man in his position but this was an emergency. "Please??" He asked, with one hand on her arm and one on the railing end to trip-up her hasty escape. "He really needs you - I really need you." He corrected at her blank interest in having anything more to do with Greg House, patient Pain-in-the-Ass extraordinaire.

Sheridan paused just long enough to hear his final plea. She appeared to be thoroughly enjoying his anxiety.

Wilson steepled his hands to his mouth. He wasn't a praying man, but - "I'll double your salary. I'll pay you under the table if you want, any-thing you want, but please stay."

She paused. For Wilson it was an agonizing few seconds, but she relented at last with a single nod of her head. "As you wish, Senator, but mark my words, if that man so much as throws a scowl my way, I will be done."

Wilson was surprised at himself how relieved he suddenly felt. "Thank you. Look, why don't you take a half hour break and have some tea. Take an hour, even. Please help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I'll look in on our patient and have a talk with him." Again.

Once the irate Sheridan was disposed to the kitchen and some evening repose, Wilson climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Why in the wide world had he decided to put the man in his own bedroom? Time to have a few choice words with the man who was turning out to be an ingrate and more trouble than he was worth.

"Listen, I don't bring just anybody into my home. Now what the hell is the ma-?" At the doorway, his righteous rant was halted by a whole other attention-grabber.

Greg House was curled up on his left side, both hands clutching at his thigh as though if he let go, it would explode. He was sweating profusely and grimacing into his pillow. Amidst the gasping and the squeaks of the box-spring, a tiny whine rose above it all. A yell muted by a man who clearly hated to show weakness of any kind. His mouth opened, caught up in a silent scream, as another spasm drove knives into his thigh.

Wilson hurried to his side. "Has it been like this all day?"

His patient shook his head once. "J-jus' start'd." Then his mouth shut as another wave of pain shut down all avenues of speech.

Wilson quickly drew up a few units of morphine and piggy-backed them into his already established IV line. "Why didn't you tell the nurse it was getting this bad?"

"She hates me."

"She probably has reason. She says you threw a sandwich at her."

Speech clearer. Breathing almost under control again. "Her story. I threw it near her."

"Well, I guess that makes it okay."

His patient's pain must have subsided and he half-sat up, and for the first time Wilson noticed he was wearing only his pajama bottoms. His - Wilson's - own pajama bottoms from his own closet. He would need to have a chat with Nurse Sheridan about the concepts of ask and ye shall borrow. And he would need to have his suit-maker ship him some spare clothes for the guy, then immediately dismissed the idea. His patient would not be here long enough to require his own closet! Other than the pajama bottoms however, the man was naked, and for the first time Wilson noticed that he was a nice looking example of masculinity.

Wilson quickly took a step away. Under the cook's hand, a small, older man who came only on weekends and cooked and froze five days worth of marvelous meals for him, Sheridan, and lately, the patient, Greg House had put some weight back on, and his appearance was much healthier. Despite nearly two weeks off his feet, and still twenty pounds under-weight, he looked fit. Slim but well built. Not a weak man by any means, recent suffering not-with-standing.

He was evenly put together, Wilson noted, with the long, sloping muscles of an athlete. Wilson wondered what kind of laborious tasks Greg House had been thrust into when hell had come calling. Whatever it was, it had helped prevent him from falling into total physical disrepair. A lucky thing, really, since the very combination of his physical strength and his stubborn nature had probably been pivotal in saving his life. Sheer tenacity had brought him through. That and a few helping hands.

Wilson caught his patient's scent. Sweat - but not the unpleasant kind. Shampoo that smelled like mint still drifting from freshly washed hair. With amusement, he contemplated how Sheridan had managed that. Probably while the guy was out cold from morphine. Wilson also idly wondered when he had purchased mint shampoo. And, of course, also ever pervasive was the odor of medicated analgesic ointment the nurse had given her patient to spread on the flesh around his healing incision. It's septic smell buried everything else.

A week and a half of gauze-changes had caused the surrounding epidermis to pebble, and now it was starting to flake off. Wilson knew that would disappear within a few days, to be replaced by pink new skin. He also predicted that there would be little scarring, medically, other than the incision itself, though the flesh beneath the skin surrounding the incision was changed for good. A one by eight inch area was grossly sunken-in, the total width of the disfigurement widening to nearly three inches toward the middle of the canoe-shaped pucker. The man's beautiful leg was forever marred.

"That's looking fine." He remarked lamely, though the scar was in reality a gross blemish in comparison to his other, still perfect leg. Somehow, he felt guilty for what he'd had to do to such a handsome thing. And the thing's owner.

Greg House was once again slumped on his left side, the morphine having taken him down. Half dozing but with eyes wide, he was looking up at his benefactor with interest.

Wilson blushed. He had been staring, and his patient had noticed.

"Right." House said. "It's perfect."

"I'm sorry I couldn't save all the muscle." The scar did nothing to diminish the man's looks or the attractiveness of the rest of his body. Greg House was older than himself by, he guessed, perhaps ten years. Though his facial bone structure was refined, with a small, straight nose, thin brows over the most intensely blue eyes he had ever come across, his chin sported several days growth of dark ginger and salt whiskers, surrounding lips that regularly slipped from neutral over to grim, giving him the unwavering appearance of animosity. Wilson felt like he was looking at a man who had aged far too soon, and for reasons beyond his control. Reasons other than genetics, or chance.

Wilson knew it was fantasy, but it was as though the mind or soul inside Greg House had lived many times over that of his body, and the evidence of it was in wary, angry eyes, and on lips that rarely cracked anything but a sad-looking droop. Hard, taxing lives had come forth in this man, years heavy with pain that had brought him great intelligence and insight, but a spider-webbed soul tucked inside a creature who was now denied a place among free men.

Greg House struck him as a man who had observed the world for centuries, learned its shameful secrets, and been slapped down for it.

"It's just a scar, Mister House. It has nothing to do with anything else." The senator explained with all the bright assurance of a person who had never been required to face such a physical turning. "You're still a good-looking man."

Wilson realized what he'd just said, and tried to back-track his mouth. "I mean, if you're worried about never finding anyo-" He suddenly remembered that by law Workers were not allowed to form sexual relationships, marry or have children, all in the name of tightly restricted population controls. He shut his mouth again, shocked at himself and his loose compliment, and his faulty memory where worker rights, or lack there-of, were concerned.

Shit! What the hell was wrong with his tongue? What was wrong with him? This man was a worker.

Senator Wilson made his feet move, backing toward the door. He felt like a school boy caught doing mischief, and it frustrated him that he had no idea why, and couldn't shake the feeling. "Uh, yo-you get some sleep now. The nurse'll be by if you need anything else. G-nite'." He babbled, practically sprinting from room and down the stairs, passing the nurse who was on her way up again with the patient's dinner. "Senator??"

He ignored her, shutting himself away in his study.

Pouring a generous drink, he downed half of it right away. Wilson stretched out in an easy chair to his full six-foot-one length. Leaning back, he let the butter-soft padding cradle his almost-middle-aged bones, easing tired feet onto the dark leather ottoman.

There. That was better. The smell of expensive alcohol, rich leather and wood calmed him. The whiskey would do the proper job on his muddled head. Reaching behind him, he let his hand blindly fumble over the many bound volumes of his beloved library. Choosing a book that felt interesting, he pulled it out and read the front cover.

"Oxford Case Histories of Respiratory Disease." He said aloud, sighing. Not his first choice, but a refresher course never hurt anyone. He opened it to the introductory page, and made a point of forgetting about Gregory House for the rest of the evening.

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TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Rational Principle**

Part IV

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. **_**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

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Wilson heard his patient every day now. _Thump-shuffle-thump-shuffle-thump_, as Greg learned to, at first, use the crutches. A few days later, once he had mastered them, Wilson had the nurse bring Greg a cane from her supplier.

His patient went rather well on it. Despite his doctoral advice, however, Greg used the cane on his right side, the side of his injury. "You might develop shoulder issues if you continue doing it that way." Doctor Wilson warned.

Greg threw him an irritated look every time he tried to counsel him on it. "I'm a doctor, too, remember? I want to use my leg as normally as possible."

Wilson suspected it was more that Greg did not want to look like an old man. "Fine. Be stubborn."

"Thanks, I think I will."

A heavy sigh. "Well, you're moving now at least. You won't be invalided." It was time for things to get back to normal. "Tomorrow morning, the local shelter will come for you, and we'll see about getting you into a decent family again."

Greg was suddenly very silent, though he nodded.

Wilson tried again, shooting for enthusiasm in his own voice in order to spur the same emotion in his patient. "It'll be different this time. Reggie says he'll take extra measures to find a really accommodating family."

_Thump-step-thump-step-thump_...

"It's really for the best." Even if he had been a doctor, the law was the law, and set in place for very human survival. No doubt they had found good reason to restrict his patient to worker instead of citizen.

_Thump-step-thump_...

"Is there anything you need before I leave?"

_Thump-step-thump_...

Wilson gave up and went about beginning his daily business. It was Friday and all he had on his agenda was one session and lunch with, well, no one for a change - thank god.

He gave instructions to Sheridan to encourage the patient to be active several times through-out the day, gathered his briefcase and coat and left for his senate duties. Reggie' Juan would speak to the Shelter people. Reg' was a good man, and he'd make sure the patient was well-placed.

Greg would be all right.

-

-

Once the nurse was occupied making lunch, Greg took up the cane with greater purpose. A pillow case would do for a nice strong sack and, as quietly as he could on his two flesh and blood, and his one wood and metal leg, he began stuffing any small thing of value he could find into the make-shift cotton bag. Three silver picture frames from the room he occupied. He also found a small crumple of bills in the pocket of one of his benefactor's dinner jacket's. Counting it, he had scored a tidy sum of one hundred and twenty-seven dollars. That'd do him for a while.

Crimping down the hall, he rummaged through two other bedrooms and a large walk-in linen and everything else closet. Here he found one shelf crowded with pint bottles of Perrier water, and a box of protein bars. He took six bottles and the entire box of bars. The next room was a gym - hence the bottled water and health food. In a seating area near a tread-mill and weight machine, sat a gold watch on a low table. Beside it was an empty coffee cup. The senator had worked out that morning. Amazing what people left lying around. The watch was heavy in his hand. It had to be worth several hundred dollars. He almost felt guilty taking it, but into the sack it went.

A quick search of the rest of the top floor of the mansion turned up nothing else. Lastly he grabbed a warm jacket from his host's bedroom closet, a sweater, a second pair of pants and three pairs of socks. He fumbled through a rack of dress and running shoes, finally finding a pair of expensive sneakers that more-or-less fit. They were a bit snug, but they still fit better than the others he had tried on.

Greg hefted the bag over his left shoulder. All-in-all it felt like it weighed about twenty-five pounds. Not too bad. He could handle it.

What he couldn't handle was going beck to any shelter only to be shuffled off to the next "family" who would deign to give him potato soup and table scraps in exchange for twelve hours work a day. Leg or no leg, he would rather take his chances on the street.

It was pathetically easy to slip passed the nurse who had her portly self turned toward the stove. She was stirring something that smelled like tomatoes.

Then, outside and crimping away across the manicured lawn, Greg heard the nurse calling from inside the house. A window above him that was ajar carried her professional snark to his ever more retreating ears. "Mister Greg? Where have you got to? Senator will be very upset if he finds you've locked yourself in the bathroom again. And _twice_ as mad if you refuse to eat your lunch."

The senator could stick his lunch he didn't care where.

-

-

Most of the street lights had been broken here, and so the headlights of the van were especially crucial for locating any run-away's or abandoned's. But headlights had their disadvantages also, since the run-away's and abandon's could see them coming and so scurry away like mice before any of his salvage team could get close enough to either nab them with a net, or get a dart in them before they had a chance to make an escape.

Sometimes a combination of the two was needed, though tranq's were expensive and used only as a last resort. Besides, a tranq'ed worker had to be carried, and that made their job even harder.

Chapman told the driver "Kill the lights."

This was where a lot of the run-away's hung out. It was an area of abandoned, tumbling down building's, once used to warehouse any manner of goods, now left to decay. Much like the decaying human's that consistently invaded their darkest cubbyholes.

Approaching one building that had been cleaned out of abandon's only weeks before, Chapman knew it was likely a new batch had already moved in. If it were up to him, he'd rather leave them be, but that would make their miserable lives worse, not better, as once or twice a year government units of "wasps", soldiers whose sole purpose was to creep in and sweep through the areas, cleaning out any abandon's or run-away's. Any found resisting were, in most cases, hauled off to government run work-camps. The shelters were bursting to capacity, but still a shelter or adoption by a family was a preferred fate to life in a camp.

Chapman had been keen on snagging one fellow in particular who, despite his disability (a limp he had been told), had evaded every one of his salvage teams efforts to bring him in over the last week. He didn't know how the fellow had been managing on the street. Rumor had it, the guy had been with a family for eight or nine months, then split, and had been on the street for the last ten days.

Tonight Chapman had an odd feeling he and the mystery fellow were going to meet up.

"Make sure the tranq' guns are ready. Government sweep's due next week, so we need to get as many of these poor buggers off the street as we possibly can."

His team knew the routine. Stalk and toss the net, or flush and fire. Tonight Chapman had brought his newest acquisition to the team - Ranger, his four-legged, German Shepherd guarantee. Nothing was going to get passed this dog's nose tonight.

The moment Ranger was let out on his short chain, his nose raked the ground and his ears perked up as only a dog's ears could. One tiny yip and they knew Ranger already had a target somewhere nearby. Ranger was let off his leash and he leaped for a sagging door, squeezing his smaller from through it and disappearing down a dark hallway that stank of urine.

The human members of the team had to scramble to catch up, wrenching the door aside to make room for their own, larger and more clumsy bulk.

Ranger did not disappoint. By the time they reached the dog, he had someone cornered, who was trying to protect his head from attack with raised arms.

Chapman hated this part. He was here to help people, but he hated that he had to do it with nets, and dogs and tranq' rifles. "Come on, man. It's time you got a decent meal in you, don't you think?" The mention of hot food was often all that was needed to entice a run-away to come close enough to grab him or her, many of the workers he encountered on the street having eaten little in days, and for certain none of them had lately sunk their teeth into a hot burger and cheese fries.

But this run-away evidently had no intention of accompanying them to dinner. He stood and swung a stick at the dog, bouncing it off the animal's rock-hard skull. The dog hardly flinched. Next he tried to take down the closest man, so he could slip passed, but Chapman signaled his flank-man to ready his rifle. "Take him down, Norman." He said sadly.

One soft crack, a whose of high pitched air, and the tranquilizer hit its target dead-center. Even in the shadows, the surprise on his face was clear. Still he had the awareness enough to pinch the tiny offensive thing between two fingers and yank it out. But it had already had time enough to cause the proper effect. The abandoned swayed and fell.

Chapman had a cursory look at him. Middle-aged, a couple of weeks growth of beard. And his stick was actually a cane. A cripple, too. He'll be glad for some good grub and a warm bed. "Wrap him up."

-

-

Wilson agreed to another few hours of volunteer work, against his better judgement. He couldn't help a niggling curiosity about his former patient and house guest who'd run off. He couldn't help wondering where the fellow had got to. Was he in a good family? Was he okay? But from the minute he arrived at the shelter, Doctor Chapman put patient after patient in his hands, keeping him far too busy to even think about it. There were simply too many people parading passed his examination table to spend even a minute worrying about one worker whom he had not seen for many months.

Wilson looked around. He could see his friend no where. "Where is Doctor Juan?"

"I sent Reggie out to treat some street cases." Chapman explained as he bandaged a youngster's leg at the adjacent table. "One in a while, when we get too full to bring them all in, and when we have the extra help, we go portable. Treat 'em on the street."

"Really?" Wilson wondered just how many street cases they got in a week.

Chapman was thinking of one particular case and shared. "You should see this guy we brought in last night."

"Yeah?" Wilson asked, though his mind was once again on the infected limb a middle aged woman was holding out to him. He dabbed the wound with antiseptic again and again, trying to flush out the puss.

"Yeah. Poor bastard was in real rough shape. Whoever got a hold of him last, his family I assume, made short work of him. I've never seen so many bruises on one human being."

Wilson hated to think of what some workers had gone through. Still, for the most part, the system worked. It had to. The human race had no choice left now, but to make it work. "I'm taking it that this so-called family didn't much care for their newest adoptee."

"Not actually a family, as it turns out. Another rental agency, as they like to call themselves."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, you know - a front."

"No, I don't know. What's a front?"

"Not many of them get through the system, thank god, but some do. You know, government employee trying to make a few extra on the side, let's a few of the family criteria slide under the radar - the missing criteria. A large, cozy family group gets together, makes the setting al pretty, applies for a half dozen or more workers, and there you go: instant brothel."

"You mean some families aren't families? Some workers are having their flesh traded for money?"

"Forgive me, senator, but what century were you born in? The brothel is the oldest business on the planet. Perfectly reasonable that one or two slip through the system's cracks here and there. When we suspect one, we report it and the government take sit from there."

"So this fellow came from a brothel?"

"Yeah. Probably went after a family member, or a client maybe -who knows? But he got a bad beating for his trouble before he got away."

"Where is he?"

"He's sedated. We have him isolated right now to make sure he isn't infected with anything worse than a regular crotch-rotting STD."

Wilson finished with the woman's arm, shoo-ed her off the table and waved to the next one. His hands worked furiously to stitch the gash on the fellow's hand. "I'd still like to see him." What the hell was wrong with society? Even when they could get the next thing to slave labor, greed still surfaced in some and they wanted more. There were times he finished his day ashamed of humanity.

"Sure. Come this way."

Wilson excused himself from his patient and followed Chapman to a tiny back room, hardly bigger than a closet. In it's dark recess was one narrow cot. On the cot lay a man strapped down. Kindly offering - "Let me get the light." Chapman said.

Wilson was staring down at his patient, the one who had lay in his own bed, who's thigh he had taken apart and put back together. Who had eaten his food and used crutches and slowly gotten better. Healthy enough to face life again, if so in this instance it could be called. "Jesus."

He ran fingers through his hair, shaking his head. "This is my patient - _was_ my patient."

"Oh?"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. Only the last time I saw him, he was doing okay. not like - " He gestured uselessly to the beaten individual unconscious before him. "How bad is he?"

"Well, he'll live for sure. But he's a little thin, multiple contusions, a broken finger - we don't know how that happened, but we splinted it. And generally looks like he's been through a war. And of course, 'cause of the nature of his "family"," Chapman said it as with-in bunny-quotes, he had some anal tearing and infection."

Wilson suddenly wanted to vomit all over Chapman's worn floor tiles. "This isn't,...this shouldn't happen." He said quietly. "This is wrong in so many ways."

"This is the life under Rational Principle, senator. This is how half the population lives now."

Suddenly he was angry with Chapman and his whole unsettling, horrible, human-rag-littered shelter. "_This_ is not Rational Principle. This," he waved his hand around at the shelter, its hurt patients and its unpaid, tired volunteers, "is a fucking _travesty_. This man is educated. He should _not_ be here."

Chapman steered the senator to his nearby office. "Keep your voice down, please." He said, ushering him in and closing the door.

"Why should I? You know as well as I how sub-standard things have obviously become for some of these people. This is ridiculous - it's inhuman. It's unfair! And I'm not going to shut up about it." _Not anymore._

Chapman tried his best to sooth. "Okay, senator, I appreciate that, believe me, we all do, but standing around here and yelling at what a crappy job my exhausted volunteers are doing isn't going to help at all." He blew out his own exhausted air. "You think it's easy getting these people to come in after hours and slog through worker blood and guts for no pay, and usually no thanks either?"

"No." Wilson said, calmer, "No, o-of course not. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

Chapman sat in his hard desk chair. He didn't so much as sit as let himself fall into it, as though his leg muscles had suddenly quit. "You want to do something, senator? Great. Go make better policy where it comes to the treatment of workers. Get them better standards of food and family, get them proper health care, get them at least some rights - get them _some_thing, for Christ's sake. Then we'll talk about what's wrong or right in my shelters."

"What's going to happen to him? Your patient I mean. The brothel guy?"

"We'll heal him up, and send him back to an adoption agency again."

"Another adoption agency." Wilson whispered. Another place the man would just run from. What happens next time? And the next? From the short time he'd been in the fellow's presence, he doubted there was an agency or family in the world who would agree to take him in. So then the government run work camps. A place where the incorrigible get lost and forgotten. Just another pair of worker hands doing labor for no one and no purpose. Eat, work, drink. Until you die.

This was not the Rational Principle in which he believed and had been ushered into as a member of an already rich family, chosen amongst the first to become those of the elite. He'd been living in an invisible bubble of rights and privilege his whole life.

Of course he understood how lucky he had been to have come into the world in the embrace of such a family to begin with - and then to have that family ushered into a more defined privilege again. But Wilson had been ignorant of just how good, how easily good, he'd always had it, and how others, just as intelligent, just as human, people as deeply feeling, as passionate - who naturally wanted more, had not.

A bubble he had never seen, or forgotten was there. Never had he had to question whether or not it would be _okay_ for him to ask for something. Never had he, upon entering a room, worried if he would be welcomed or snapped at and turned back.

Never had he ever wondered where he might sleep that night, or what dinner might be and would he like it this time. Never had he questioned the _right_ of his rights of freedom to pursue happiness or love.

It was like when he'd heard news of a house fire on a street somewhere. Blocks over. Other people, nameless, losing everything. People, elite or not, whom he did not know, and so felt nothing for. Difficult to see them even, in his mind's eye, no matter whether or not they survived their ordeal un-scathed.

"This is _not_ Rational Principle." He said again, the words barely registering within the range of human hearing. The problem, which had just now been presented to him in all the malodorous wounds of the discarded, was that he had no idea what the hell it was. "This is...." No correct words came.

When sad reality itself, a reality that surrounds you and is the world in which you live, slaps your face - _where,_ then, do you look for a healing balm? Wilson put his hands on his hips, a habit he had picked up from him non-violent but disciplinary father. The man had never once struck his children, but they had cowed before him anyway. He was a person who had naturally commanded respect simply by entering a room.

The determination behind the stance stood him well here. Wilson said to Chapman with clear intent, so there would be no misunderstanding or argument. "I'm taking him with me."

But Chapman had paperwork, and government-bourne superiors to contend with. "What? Um - with _you_?"

"You heard me."

"And what do you intend to do with him, exactly?" Chapman asked, his face a puzzle at the odd behavior of the man he had come to consider a friend of the worker-caste. "He's not _well_. This patient needs to be cared for and, eventually, sent back to an agency."

"I'll figure it out." Wilson answered. He knew he was being deliberately non-specific; not giving his colleague any real answers - because he really didn't have them to give anyway - but other than getting the man some medical help, a warm place to heal, and a few good meals, he wasn't thinking any further ahead than ten minutes from now. He hoped Amy Sheridan was still free to do another few weeks of day shift. It didn't matter. He'd find someone. He'd fix this. This part of it. This patient, at least. _One _man.

A vision of his opulent home flashed across his mind, flooding him with shame. All those well-furnished empty rooms, and just alone to live in them.

"You'll have to sign off on him - medically I mean. Because I can't recommend he be discharged to another shelter yet. He's far too weak.

"And" Chapman gave him a rueful look, "you'll need to apply to adopt. You know you can't have him in your home - right? If that's what you're thinking." This was a senator, and he would already know that, but Chapman felt it necessary to remind him.

Senator Wilson looked grieved, as though this man's suffering were somehow worse than the misery of many others. Not true. "It's illegal to harbor an un-adopted or falsely assigned worker, but I imagine you already know that."

Wilson nodded but said nothing for a moment as he returned to the tiny room where his newest and craziest notion lay, oblivious to his future - however that unfolded. Senator Wilson himself, adopter-to-be, didn't know either.

He, the doctor, knew this man. He, the senator, person and fellow human, didn't know him at all.

Chapman had silently followed him to the room, and stared down at the sleeping sick man alongside Wilson, both men with misgivings, each for the one, the other or both. Both with uncertainties for the future of just the one.

Wilson said "Do you mind giving me a supply of what-ever medication you've got him on? I'll pay for it.

And maybe calling me with the results of his blood and urine tests?"

Wilson handed his card to Chapman, who took it quizzically. "Yeah, yeah, I can do that. Sure."

"Thanks." Wilson could not believe he was about to become the owner of a human being. "Bring me the papers."

XXX

TBC asap


	5. Chapter 5

**Rational Principle**

Part Vf

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. **_**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

KEEP in mind this is a New Jersey that changes, like as Gone With The World, this is an AU that House and Wilson were _born_ into, but then changes.

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"Bad news." Doctor Chapman rung him up on his private cell a few days later. It was mid-morning.

Senator Wilson, wandering the echoing corridors of Senate Hall didn't like the sound of his friend's voice. "Your application to summarily acquire Greg House was denied." Chapman said.

"Denied? Why?"

"I'm not sure. But the circumstances of his recovery might have something to do with it - the local agency bureaucrats might not have liked your little illegal hosting of him while he was incapacitated. Some of them love the rule book more than a good steak. Plus it makes them look bad when one of their charges is walking the earth un-spoken for."

"He was hardly _walking_ at the time."

"You know what I mean."

"How did they even find out? It's not like I had a _choice_. There was no where else for him to go but the street."

"I know that, and you know that, but they want to pretend that they don't know that. Next year's budget's on the line, big guy. And it was the paperwork that told them. We do our best to get these people help, and to do that, there are only so many things I can hide. I'd rather lose my popularity with you than have the shelter closed down."

Wilson knew that, too. "What's going to happen to him? Have they taken him back to an agency? What now?"

Chapman lowered his voice a little. "I don't know exactly. No. And um...can anyone hear us?"

"I'm on my cell, of course they can't."

"Fine, fine, you never know with tech' these days. Look - he's still in my hands, I could arrange to have one of my driver's ship him to an auction - _accidentally, _if you get my drift? You know - make a wrong turn, run out of gas, lose the address, that kind of thing. The adoption agencies are huge, and none of them yet know he's a run-away. We haven't sent them an updated count of our most recent street rescues this week. Not yet, and I can fudge the paperwork on my end. Besides one little monthly discrepancy isn't going to raise a lot of carefully plucked eyebrows at Agency Central."

"You can _do_ that? Aren't auctions illegal?"

"I can as long as we both agree this conversation never happened. This is New Jersey - the capital. Lots of illegal things happen all the time."

Wilson was tempted to simply fetch Greg himself, and screw the legalities. Only how might it look? It would raise some eyebrows for sure, and probably questions from people that he'd rather not have to answer. "When? And what do _I_ do? I can't show my face at a flesh-peddler's black market bargain sale." He felt a twinge of conscience referring to Greg as a bargain human. He hadn't meant that, exactly. But he was a cripple - _now_. What sort of price would he fetch? What if some slimy brothel dealer tries to out-bid him? What kind of sick fuck buys a _person_?

"One of my volunteers could do the bidding for you, as long as she had access to your bank account, or if you gave her a bank credit note. A blank one?" Chapman turned the last into a question.

A blank bank note could be cashed anywhere by anyone. Or traded straight across for agreed upon cash amount. Wilson ran fingers through his hair. What the hell was he doing getting himself tied up in this? This was a single worker, hardly worth a career. He could be on the road to ruining his life. What the fuck was wrong with him??

Only he couldn't help feeling responsible for Greg. He supposed he was feeling this way because he had operated on him. Or because he had crippled him for life. Or because the guy used to be a doctor, and why in Christ was he clamped down to worker caste? _Why_ was an educated man reduced to this sort of life in a system that everyone knew wasn't _fair_, but was as equitable as it could be made under the circumstances? Doctors are never on the B list.

Or maybe he wanted to help him because this man _needed_ help, and his own heart wouldn't let it go that maybe he, as a politician, was partly responsible for his suffering.

But lots of people suffered. Elite people, too. They got sick, they lost in the stock market, they died. The system wasn't perfect, but it _had_ to exist. Populations had to be controlled and that meant laws had to exist to control the populace. Nothing could continue as it had before, or the world would soon run out of what livable space was left, and what available food grew, or was raised, there-in. People understood - didn't they? - that mankind had been on the brink of world starvation. Status quo could no longer hold sway. The old Constitution was now just a pretty dream they'd all had. Liberty, Freedom, and the Right to Happiness, Justice and Peace was no longer possible for all, or _all_ would perish.

Wilson felt invisible arms pulling him urgently toward this man, and ghostly feet pushing him. For a reason he could not explain, the fate of this man, the events that had led up to his being thrust to the bottom of the social walkways, bothered him, and not only professionally but _personally_. He did not want _this_ man to perish.

"Senator?" Chapman spoke into his ear, snapping him out of his momentary mental stalemate.

"What? I mean, yes, yes I'll get a check to you. But what about the paper trail?"

"I got a guy who can take care of that. Trust me, slipping someone into something illegal - like an auction, is a hell-of-a-lot easier than trying to sneak someone out of the system."

"I see."

"There's an auction in two days on a private estate out passed the lake. Twenty-five miles or so. Deliver the check to Sammy's Pub tomorrow evening at ten. You know where that is?"

He did. It was a respectable establishment that many of the younger senate members frequented. He'd fit in well enough.

"I'll pick it up and get it to my girl, and she'll attend the auction. You'll be an instant little family in no time. That okay with you?"

"Yes. Thanks. And Chapman?" Wilson stopped him before he could hang up. "Price is no object, okay? Make sure she understands that."

"Sure. I'll get details to you later on how you can collect him once the auction's over."

When the late evening of the day in question came, Chapman called him urgently. On his other line, Wilson told Monroe to hold, and switched to speak to Chapman.

"My girl can't make it, James."

James felt the floor beneath his feet drop away. His arms felt like jello and he found himself looking down to make sure they hadn't actually. He could barely hold the phone. "What do you mean?"

"I mean she had an emergency at her work. She can't go."

Greg was going to end up in some miserable association of humans who had nothing good in mind for him. "What do we do now?" Chapman must have a Plan B. No one did anything illegal without a Plan B.

"You'll have to go yourself."

Wilson wasn't certain his ears were working just right. "I,...me?? I can't go to an auction. I'll be _seen_." His heart raced. A trickle of sweat made a tickle at the collar of his shirt. "Don't you have anybody else?"

"No. I'm sorry." Chapman sounded final. No Plan B. No one to help him help his patient. Soon, no Greg.

"But,..." He protested but knew, deep down, knew what he was going to have to do. "I _can't_ go to an auction. I'm a representative of the State. Someone will recognize me. I could be charged."

"Well, he's your patient, isn't he? How badly do you want this guy?"

Good question and he had no fucking simple answer except that he did - _want_ him. For some cockamamie reason he couldn't have unraveled with a team of crack lawyers.

"Senator? Are you there?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe we can track him. See who ends up with him? Figure some way to-"

"-No." Wilson said clearly. "No. I-I'll go. I'll go to the auction. He's my responsibility." He cursed his conscience and the winged horse it rode in on. "I'll take care of it." Greg was his patient, Chapman had reminded him. He could go on the pretense of checking up on his patient's progress, and so was purchasing - was being _forced_ into purchasing him - because he had no other alternative. Because as Greg's physician he had deemed Greg's physical progress to be unsatisfactory, and the auctioneer's would not release him into his care.

Pretty thin story.

He could add he had hired an investigator to track Greg down, because Greg had run before he was fully recovered. He just wouldn't mention that most of that recovery had taken place in his own home, or how he knew of the existence of the auction's to begin with.

Seriously thin.

Over the phone, Chapman sounded impressed. "Okay. I'll have my girl get all the documents to you later in the week. My advice is to wear plain clothing, a hat and glasses. And, if you can, pay in cash."

Though the thing was taking place on private property, Wilson was astonished that the auction itself was a veritable fair-ground teeming with potential buyers. People milled around. There were several open-air beer tents, food being served, a playground for the kiddies. How did such flagrant disregard for the Laws of Principle go so unnoticed - and un-tackled? And for how long?

He walked and acted as casually as he could manage, but felt like he was about to burst an artery or two from the tension. Trying to blend in as much as possible, other than the regular man clothes, was difficult. It felt un-natural to walk around as though he came to places like this ever other day. He thought about dumbing down his speech but decided that he was not a good enough actor to pull that off. Better to just keep his mouth shut until he had to talk.

It was unnecessary anyway. No one was paying him any mind. No one cared. It occurred to him that if anyone did recognize him, they would probably keep their mouth shut anyway since the whole damn event was illegal. No one was supposed to be there in the first place. All of these people would be members of the Elite. No one who didn't have oodles of extra cash could afford to purchase a worker. A person would be expensive, wouldn't he?

Several panels of lights were plugged in and the deepening dark was turned once again into day. People chatted, told jokes, laughed and drank beer. It was almost a party atmosphere. A man over a loud speaker announced that the auction was now underway, and many people drifted toward a large, metal structure that at one time had most likely served as a pig barn.

Inside it was lit up like a runway. When Wilson entered the wide maw at one end, a faint odor of animal waste told his nostrils he was right about the smell. Once upon a time this place had held swine. Pigs, he thought with horror, that had been raised to be sold for slaughter. No slaughter here, though, other than human souls.

The first group of abandoned's were lead out. No one was in chains or tied up, but all were under the controlling escort of several men shouldering fire-arms. The riflemen kept the black muzzles pointed at the dirt, but just the same, they were effective in keeping the auction "items" humble.

Wilson watched as the workers were paraded out, group after group. No children at least, thank god. Wilson imagined the organizers would draw the law down on them swiftly if they dare crossed that social taboo. Just because they were crooks, didn't mean they were stupid.

Hours into the auction, Wilson was grieving that he would never locate Greg. Maybe he had been sold privately? Maybe Chapman had gotten the date wrong? Or perhaps he had arrived too late, and Greg was already sold off hours and hours ago? Maybe there were _two _daily auctions and Greg had gone with the first showing? This could all be futile.

Over the loud speaker, dozens of run-away's and abandoned's later, the announcer said - "The last batch is our bargain barrel. Five persons not quite in their prime. Excellent workers, even if they are a tad on the ripe side."

Wilson figured the announcer meant old, worn out. The stinking son-of-a-bitch.

Sure enough, five middle aged and older people were lead in, one limping heavily.

"Each one will work hard for you. All you have to do is make your pick, take them under your kind wing, and," he added with a chuckle, "pull out your wallet."

One of the five was his patient. Wilson's head had been filled with visions of whip marks, or chains, ragged clothing and a starved, beaten look. But it was just Greg dressed in tee-shirt and an old pair of baggy jeans. No shoes or socks. No cane.

Of course. A cane could be used as a weapon. He had no doubts that if Greg had been allowed one, he for certain would have already used it trying to escape.

Greg looked very tired, though, and angry. Even from yards away, Wilson could see the hatred filling his eyes for everyone in attendance staring back at him. And he was clearly in pain, as he stood there with his weight shifted onto his left side, his right toes barely brushing the hard packed dirt.

The bidding started at twenty-five thousand dollars, and Wilson was shocked out of his own sorrowful thoughts. A large amount of money for a beginning price. But, he reminded himself, these were people. People ought not to be sold, but if they in fact carried price tags under the law (or no), they ought not to come cheap.

Wilson held up his number board, and the auctioneer pointed his gavel at him. "Number forty-eight for twenty-five thousand!" He skimmed over the crowd, "Do I hear twenty-seven, twenty-seven thousand - number seventeen, thank you, sir. Do I hear thirty thousand?"

Another man standing near-by him had out-bid him by that last two thousand. Wilson took an instant dislike to the fellow's cut and jive. He raised his sign.

"Thirty-thousand to number forty-eight! Do I hear thirty-_five_ for this fine looking worker? He's a cripple but I promise you he won't cripple your pocket book."

Wilson's rival bidder raised his sign, and before the auctioneer could say another word, Wilson raised his number and shouted "Forty thousand!"

"Forty! Do I hear fifty for this strapping male?"

The Rival held up his sign. The man was now watching Wilson, as well as turning his eyes back to his potential purchase. He had a disquieting gleam in his eye and, to Wilson's shock, thickly licked his lips as though he were about to enjoy a rich, tasty and expensive meal.

Lust. The guy clearly had insidious and lecherous things planned for his purchase of flesh. Wilson shuddered at the thought of Greg falling into this greasy bastard's fingers. Wilson shouted "Sixty-thousand!"

"Sixty to the gentleman in the dark glasses. Do I hear seventy? Seventy thousand for this good looking worker?"

Wilson's rival threw him a menacing look, and held up his sign again. "Seventy! to the gentleman in the blue suit."

Wilson raised his, calling out "Seventy-five!"

"Seventy-five. Excellent!" He addressed the blue suited bidder, "Now back to you, sir. Do I hear eighty? Eighty thousand folks. For a man just barely middle-aged - it's a steal from us to you." When no one bid, the auctioneer dropped the price. "Seventy-five thousand? Seventy-five thousand, people..."

Blue suit man raised his sign once more.

Wilson raised his and shouted out, just to be clear his intent was to go home with the crippled man in defiance of the blue suited sleaze bucket - "Eighty-five thousand!"

His rival threw him a dirty look and shook his head in answer to the questioning look on the auctioneer's face. "SOLD to the man in the dark glasses, number forty-eight. That's it. Fun's over. Thank you, folks, for attending and for your generous hearts. Settle your bills, ladies and gentlemen, with the cashiers at the desks near the waiting rooms to your left. Drive safely."

Waiting rooms? Wilson thought bitterly. Bullshit words to convey the false picture that this was just a friendly farmer's market, and there were comfy easy chairs and beverages for the slaves to enjoy while waiting for their new benevolent masters to take them home to a pretty house with the picket fences. Wilson shook his head at the distasteful thing in which he had just participated. The waiting rooms were animal stalls into which had been placed folding metal chairs. More men with more rifles guarded the workers waiting in the stalls. Wilson imagined those poor workers had sat there all day waiting to learn their fate. Would it be a nice home, or a not so nice one they would be going to?

Whatever, the bid was over, and Greg was his.

Wilson brushed passed a small crowd of people in his haste to get in line at the cashier's desks. He did not notice a woman dressed in black and wearing a large brimmed hat staring after him thoughtfully.

When Wilson had paid over the hefty sum, Greg was brought out to him. He had been given his cane back.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Was the man's first question to his savior from many months ago.

"I purchased your contract - "

" - you purchased _me_ you fucking hypocrite."

"Look - I'm trying to help you." A light bulb went on in his head that he had no way to coerce Greg to come home with him. He wasn't much of a fighter and he certainly didn't carry a gun. "I want to examine your leg."

"I've gotten by fine since then - without _you_. You can help me by walking the other direction. If you think I'm going back to another goddamn agency, you're nuts."

"No agency." Wilson was exhausted. It was passed the middle of the night, and he needed sleep. Thank goodness tomorrow was a closed session day. Certain internal government matters regarding certain states of the Union only. This particular session did not include any New Jersey interests so, as a New Jersey representative, he was not required to be there. "Can we talk in the car? Unless you'd like to walk"

Wilson took his cellular out and called for a taxi. His regular worker would be sleeping in her bed. Worker staff or not, she deserved a decent night sleep just like everyone else did. He yawned into the phone. _Almost _everyone. Explaining where the taxi driver would need to come, he gave him the address, adding "Party of two."

"So,.." Greg said as Wilson lead him up the rear walk to his senator's mansion. "...am I required to bend over to thank you, or you wanna' whip it out right here?"

"Neither." Wilson fished in his pockets for his keys, coming up empty three times before he remembered they were in his coat pocket. Somehow his fumbling, inept moment was endearing. He wasn't a senator or a doctor at that moment, just a dead-tired guy looking for his keys.

"Why are you doing this?" Greg asked for the second time. Wilson had not answered him the first time because, as he unlocked the back door to his lavish house, he could think of no reasonable answer. Altruism? Because he was a really nice guy? Because Greg was his patient? That was as close to anything that made sense to him in his own conscious mind.

May as well be truthful. "I don't know." Wilson said. Greg had a nasty ability to sniff out lies. He was a truth bloodhound.

"Then I'll be on my way."

"_Please_," Wilson laid it on thick, "let me look at your leg. You can't tell me you're not in pain."

Greg didn't move from his huddled spot by the back entrance. "If I let you look at my leg, am I free to go after?"

Wilson sighed, drawing a hand down a tired face. "Fine. I won't stop you." Wilson left the kitchen and entered a large living area, waving his guest over to a two-seater couch. Greg sank down into it a soft six inches.

Wilson pushed the coffee table over, so Greg could put his leg up. He also snatched a small decorative pillow from the other end of the small couch and tucked it beneath his patient's knee. Whoops. "Um, you're going to have to take off those jeans."

Greg stood, unzipped and let the jeans slip down to his feet of their own accord. He had no underwear on, and Wilson did his best to keep his eyes averted from certain places he had no business looking.

The jeans were much too big for him, but at least, by his estimation of what he could see of his patient's physique, he wasn't seriously underweight anymore. Where ever the places Greg had traveled since running off nearly a year ago, he'd been fed.

Greg sat back down, lifting the leg once more. Wilson sat on the coffee table and did a visual, and a very gentle finger touch, examination of the thigh. The incision had healed well, though the thigh was an ugly sight now. The intact musculature around the site of the debridement had not yet lost its definition. Where the dead muscle had been removed, however, a shallow, jagged canyon remained. "That's done well." He said, feeling like an idiot at his short, fairly useless medical summation.

Greg was not impressed. "I could have told you that."

This close to Greg, Wilson could see the sweat on his brow from the exertion of simply walking from the taxi to this room. There was a shadow of tension through out his face and body. He was in pain. Too much to be out walking around, fending for himself. He would never make it in any position as a laboring worker in this state. "Why don't you stay here tonight? Get a decent meal and a good night's sleep. Tomorrow's a brand new day, you can always run off then."

At his reasonable words, he could see that Greg was vacillating. "Look, I'm not sure what else I can do to convince you I'm not trying to cock whip you, or force you into mucking out the horse stalls." Wilson explained. "I operated on you, I have a vested interest in my patients. It reflects on me whether or not they do well."

"Dark glasses and hat? Reflects on you, my ass."

Yes, in shame, he had worn a disguise. "Reflects on me personally, then. Reflects on my own conscience." Wilson stood. Looked down at his most stubborn patient. "I don't usually blow eighty-five thousand dollars on a person and bring him home, just so he can make my life miserable. I've never owne - I've never had to buy a worker before." He quickly corrected himself mid-sentence. "Frankly, the whole experienced left me nauseous. And you're not exactly a gracious house-guest."

Greg rubbed his thigh, but it was clear he was at least thinking about it.

Wilson sweetened the offer. "Greg, you're free to go if you want. Right now - there's the door." He pointed back to the kitchen with his arm at full extension. "But here it's warm, you'll have a nice bed, a nice _room_, all to yourself. It's right at the top of the stairs, second door on the left. There's a fridge you can raid in the middle of the night, stuff to drink - whatever you want. There's also morphine." He underlined the last word. "I leave a sterile syringe with a proper dosage in your bedroom. Use it or not. Stay or don't. If you think you can do better elsewhere, citizen or worker, be my guest." He yawned again. "Me? I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

Wilson left his patient sitting alone to do his own thinking about the offer. When, approximately a half hour later, he heard a set of feet and a cane ascending the stairs, he smiled to himself under the warm covers. The tall form of his new house-guest passed his door and, to Wilson's warm surprise, even muttered goodnight as he did. Then the limping shadow entered the room offered to him at the other end of the hall, shutting the door behind him. Wilson heard the dead-lock being turned. After all he had been through, he couldn't blame Greg for feeling a little paranoid.

Wilson turned over and shut his eyes. He didn't know, not completely, why he wanted Greg to stay, but he was glad that he was.

Sleep came instantly.

TBC asap


	6. Chapter 6

**Rational Principle**

Part VI

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. **_**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

_***This has been spell-checked, etc - but remember, I'm on my mom-in-law's computer, so I sort of had to hurry this one. Hope it's not too badly mucked up.**_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Wilson already had coffee brewing and the makings of a scrambled egg breakfast by the time his guest slowly made his way down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

After several days of the routine of breakfast, small talk, Senator off to his work, Greg off to spend a lonely, dull day confined indoors in an empty house, and then _dinner_ and small talk, almost a week had gone by.

Sunday's were the only days where something more substantial than small talk was ventured by either men. James because he was trying to bring his patient out of his shell, and after days of effort, in his opinion, some micro-loosening of the man's soul had begun. The whys he himself never went into, only that he liked having Greg around. Even senator's can find themselves friendless.

Greg because he was sleeping in a warm, comfortable bed and eating steak and lobster on a weekly basis. He had filled out and, other than his forever wounded thigh, hadn't felt better for many years. He played along because it was the smart thing to do.

Wilson kept his voice and manner casual. He did not want to spook the man into a desperate dash out into the harsh streets again. "Coffee?"

Greg stopped in the arched doorway, stared for a moment, then nodded, accepting the cup and saucer offered him. He slipped his backside onto a tall stool though, as a man of at least six-foot-two, it was not all that tall for him, and took a single swallow. He set the cup down "Any cream?"

Wilson heard the reluctance in the question. _He fully expects me to kick him out on his ear just for asking._ Wilson fetched a small pint container of cream from the fridge and set it on the black marble island counter. Making sure to keep his voice friendly - "Here."

Greg poured a generous amount into his cup, all the while watching his host as he stood, rather than sat, at the island flipping through his morning paper, and sipping his own brew into which, Greg noted, he'd scooped four heaping teaspoons of sugar - foregoing cream altogether.

Wilson stopped on an interesting looking write-up about the Park Reclamation Project - one of his - and noticed Greg sweeping repeated glances over to the cutlery drawer. James rummaged around in a nearby drawer, withdrawing what he suspected his guest was silently wanting. "Spoon?"

Greg nodded, accepting the spoon, and stirring his coffee. "Why did you buy me?"

Wilson figured that would be Greg's first question, so he had prepared an answer while he'd showered. "Because your my patient, and you're not taking care of yourself properly, so as a doctor under oath to heal, I was behooved."

Greg huffed. A mock. "Right. That's why you went to an illegal auction? You? A senator? Aren't you afraid of losing your position," he swept his eyes around the room and the house in which they currently sat sipping from pricey ground beans, "all this?"

"I tried to adopt the legal way. They said no."

"How come?"

"Because it got back to the Regional Agency board that you spent some illegal recovery time in a dwelling to where you had not been commissioned, and that's an Agency - and a legal - no-no."

""Adoption", "Commissioned". You people should hear yourselves."

"Whatever words, you were here, they didn't like it."

"Then why aren't you in jail or something?"

"I was fined for harboring a run away. They waived any actually wrong-doing because I was a doctor and you were my patient. And still are. So far you've cost me ninety-three thousand dollars, and now that expensive cup of coffee. I can't understand why you're complaining."

"I'm not complaining. I just don't understand you. You're getting nothing out of this - unless you're hoping later I'll dress up as Heidi of the Alps and sit in your lap."

"Nope. No role playing."

"Hmph."

"What "hmph"?"

"You mean you're not expecting any payment? A nice gay senator like you isn't going to try and get me into bed?"

Wilson looked at him sharply. "How do you know I'm gay?"

"I found your magazine collection."

"Found them?"

"Stumbled across them, then."

"That must have been some stumble since I keep them in a box on the top shelf of my Swedish-made closet."

"Call it luck. Interesting choice of reading material - "Young Hot Men". Very breezy."

"Stay the hell out of my closets."

"Why? That's where you're spending all _your_ time."

Wilson made no comment to that. He was in the closet, but not because he had to be in this modern day and age, but because his most influential political supporter was a bigoted conservative with all his heterosexual ducks in a row. "Some things have to be."

"Spoken like a true man of the Principle."

Wilson was dying to know. "How did you end up...you know? What happened that they stuck you on the - "

" - loser list? I left home."

That was confusing. "I don't - "

" - my father was an air force pilot - exempt from dissolution because of his self sacrificing service to his country. Had I been living at home, I would have been exempt by familial proxy - being his son - but because I was living on my own..." He left the rest unsaid. Unnecessary details.

Wilson knew members of active military service, and their families, had been written into the codes of Rational Principle as exempt, their service to the Union the mitigating factor. No soldier would willingly serve if he or she knew they or their families would be stripped of their citizenship. Perfectly sensible exemption. All nations need their willing military. Willing out of patriotism or willing out of compensation. "I see."

"I'd just finished my residency and was starting out in practice with another doctor."

"But, except for extreme cases - fraud, corruption, proven gross negligence or malpractice, doctors are exempt."

"Only either rich or well-placed doctors are exempt, or those who have enough to pay off the right political circles to remain exempt despite being corrupt. _Or_ if that doctor specializes in something the government thinks is vital."

"What was your specialty?"

"Infectious disease and nephrology."

"Then why - "

"That's what I specialized in, that wasn't what I was practicing. I was into diagnostics."

"But every doctor - "

"- renders diagnoses. I know. But not every doctor's a genius at it."

"I take it they didn't agree."

"Bingo."

Wilson nodded, suddenly feeling very much ashamed of himself, though he couldn't place why. Because of his own privileged ride into the world after Rational Principle, he thought.

It could not have been easy for Greg House, and he himself could not imagine the personal and human devastation of finding out you had fallen into the forty percent of the populace who were no longer going to possess human rights, a home, a family, or even a partner - at least not legally. After years of struggle to achieve what he had achieved, Greg had been stripped of citizenship and thrust into servitude and, by default, poverty, while he himself had coasted from rich kid in a high end preparatory school, to a honored medical university, to oncology residency and a private medical practice without nary a bump on the way. The storms, the world-wide famines, the global economic collapses, and Rational Principle, had come into effect with barely a ripple on the surface of his life.

"I'm sorry."

Greg shrugged. "Not your fault - directly."

The phone rang, and Wilson sighed. He really did not want to go anywhere today, and most especially could not afford any visitors. Not that he got many. His mother, once a year, would come visit and stay a month. After the death of his father, she had retired and was living in France. He had seen her just that spring.

His older brother was a barrister in Southern California with a beautiful wife, three children, and a full, busy life. Too busy ultimately to see his younger brother more than every few years or so. His younger brother had died in a terrible car accident at age seventeen, while high on drugs and alcohol. Not a thing Wilson liked to think too much about. He had no other relations, no current lover and close friends. So, other than people in the local political scene, almost no one ever called him.

"Hello?"

It was Monroe. "James? Is that you?"

Monroe's habitual telephone speak. _Who the hell else would it be? _"Hello Senator. How are you today?" His own customary bull. They each had their script, and played their roles perfectly.

"The governor wants us up at his private estate this evening. Some sort of emergency meeting."

_Oh Christ! What now? _"What's going on?"

"President Osuna's taken ill."

That was bad news. Very bad news. Osuna was a forward thinking, compassionate woman. Losing her at such a critical time in the Union's history would be a terrible blow in more ways than he could think of. "Do they know what's wrong with her?"

"Well, it's not serious, they don't think, not yet anyway."

"So MaCrae wants to discuss alternatives in case the worse happens?" Wilson knew all about the governor's plans, and the things he'd be wanting to discuss. Governor MaCrae had plans to run against Osuna in the next election. He was hoping (though wisely never saying), that Osuna would fair badly health-wise so an election would become inevitable a whole lot sooner than anyone expected. But MaCrae would need supporters, he would need people to speak politically well of him. He wanted to start greasing the wheels right away. Tonight. "Boy, he doesn't waste time, does he?"

"You coming?"

Do I have a choice? "What time?"

"At six."

Dinner then. Drinks and lots of them. Willing women, or men, too, if anyone was so inclined. Families were strictly kept from attending these little functions, where sexual indiscretions were winked at. Monroe would turn his head away and pretend he wasn't enjoying it at all. "Fine. I'll meet you there."

Greg had listened to the entire thing with frank curiosity. "Big political bull session?"

Wilson shook his head, then nodded. "Sort of. I won't be late." It was weird that he felt the need to explain anything to Greg, only he felt Greg ought to know that his host wasn't about to leave him alone all night. Wilson had two good reasons for it. Number one, he did not want Greg to feel he'd been abandoned again and, two, he did not want Greg to decide to make off with some more of his possessions and make another run. Wilson leaned his hands on the counter. "If I ask you nicely, will you stay and make yourself at home without robbing me blind?"

Greg shrugged. He did that a lot - shrug. Like why did it matter? Or why did he? But some some reason, it seemed to. "Sure."

"Okay. Help yourself to whatever there is in the fridge, or the TV. And remember not to answer the phone and we'll both be better off."

Greg shrugged again. "You don't have to repeat the rules every time you go out."

Wilson nodded. It'd have to do. "I've got to go write a short speech. When the governor invites you to his house, he expects to be reminded of his many accomplishments." This was nice. Weird but nice. Some honest conversation.

"What accomplishments?"

It felt good to say it. "No idea."

Greg spent the day lasing away, drinking his host's expensive coffee and orange juice, munching on microwavable pizza and some delicious sweet pastry treats that oozed real whipped cream when you bit into them. He also gave himself another small shot of morphine when, after twelve hours of blissed pain-free hours, the pain in his leg started creeping back.

Then he got bored. His host's library was a treasure trove of knowledge, but he didn't feel like reading - except for the senator's dirty magazines. Greg had absconded a hand full, tucking them away under his mattress. Everyone got lonely sometimes. Senator Wilson's DVD collection, while containing a wide selection of entertainment, did not unfortunately include anything that could be passed off as pornographic. If Clark Kent did own any live action sexual romps, he kept them well hidden. Greg gave up on the idea of watching a plotless yarn starring a decent set of knockers and a plump penis.

The rest of the house was a beautiful, cold mausoleum of spoiled rich dude. The billiard table was enticing, but playing alone was pointless. Greg soon found himself adrift in the three story mansion with nothing to do and growing ever more anxious for his host to return home, so he could mock him some more for his willingly living in an ignorant bubble of wealth. Not that the sen - not that Wilson was a bad guy. He'd saved his leg, pretty much. He ought to be grateful for that. But whenever he got a glimpse of his naked right thigh in the mirror, he suddenly didn't feel very grateful.

Standing in front of the mirror in the main hallway - why walk upstairs? It would only hurt the damn leg - Greg examined the scar with his eyes and hands. He used to be a doctor. Then he was an old worker man. Now he was crippled old worker man with an ugly scar. Greg traced the hideous mark with a finger, feeling the uneven ridges where the stitches had done their crude work in binding the edges of his flesh back together.

Doc' Wilson had done a bang-up job on the stitching itself, but no finesse could have disguised the ugliness that was now his leg. A clot. That had been Wilson's medical opinion. A break in the femoral artery, an aneurysm, had clotted and choked off the blood to the muscle. Killed myocells. Why the aneurysm had happened, no one knew, not even himself. Greg stared back at the middle aged man in the mirror with the potato brush cheeks, pepper and salting hair, and scowl. "What'r _you_ looking at?"

The phone rang. He ignored it. Some asshole politician. Greg considered. The nurse? What would she be calling here for? His mom? Dad? Paper-boy? Or maybe Wilson's boy toy? His gay lover?

Greg lifted the receiver. Boredom got him into trouble every time. "Hello?" He said as naturally as you please.

"Is that Doctor Wilson?" An old woman's voice.

What the hell? "Why not? I mean, yes. Yes, it is."

"I'm having some terrible trouble with my bowels, Doctor Wilson. Those pills you prescribed aren't doing a thing."

Probably colon cancer. "Watery stool?"

"Yes. And there's blood in it sometimes."

"What did I put you on?"

"Fiber pills."

"Pain killers, too?"

"Yes. You mean you don't rememb-?"

Yup. Colon cancer. "You married?"

"You know I am. What does that have to do wi-?"

"How old are you and your husband?"

"I'm seventy-one and Roger's seventy-three last week. I still don't understan-"

"Cut the pain killers down by half. Does your husband have erectile dysfunction?"

"Well, no, but I don't see how tha-"

"'Cause he's on the little blue pills, right?"

"Doctor _Wilson_! _What_ has gotten into you. What does my husband's-?"

"You called _me_, Marge, and at my home I might add, so just answer the damn questions."

The woman said tightly. "Yes, he's on Viagra. And my name is _Rosemary_."

"Right. Sorry. But you and your man haven't been doing it because of the pain?"

"Well, no,..you're right, it...hurts me...down there."

She was in so much pain in her bowels, it was affecting her play pen, too. "Not surprising. Okay, here's what you do. Cut the pain pills down like I told you, and then you start taking _his_ Viagra. Makes sure he keeps taking it, too, so I'll be sending you out second prescription. And another for water pills to keep your blood pressure down. The Viagra you'll need to take six pills twice a day, and for the water pills - two pills, twice a day. You got all that?"

"I,...I guess so - V-Viagra? But, doctor Wilson, I don't have high blood pressure."

"You will." He scribbled her name down on a scrap of paper, and hung up.

The most fun he'd had in months.

Wilson crashed into his door and flung it from the hinges, sending it across the room where it splintered into a million pieces against the wall.

At least, that's what it sounded like. When House was aroused abruptly from a sound sleep by his host wrenching the door open and leaping into the middle of his darkened room, it sounded as if the world was ending. Wilson cruelly flicked on the light with no regard for the squinting, disheveled, formerly sleeping man staring up at him like he'd gone mad. "Are you _nuts_? I was sleeping."

James Wilson walked to the bedside and waved a paper beneath the sleepy man's face. "Looks like that's not all you were doing."

His note. Phone call. Marge. Viagra. Insults. It was all coming back to him. "What's the big deal?"

Wilson spun around the room in fury, and Greg was worried for a second that the man was going to twirl himself into a star-spangled heap on the floor. "I told you _not_ to answer the phone." He waved the paper around as though it were the prosecution's exhibit number one. "And then you do it anyway. You talked to a patient, Greg. You gave medical advice to my _patient_. An _important_ patient. A rich mother of a senator who could crush me like a wiggly worm."

_Wiggly?_ But Greg decided it wasn't worth arguing about. His advice had been sound, so he shrugged, making Wilson look at him as though he suddenly wanted to kill him. In the face of his host's apoplectic sputtering, Greg ventured as blandly as boiled cream of wheat. "So?"

"So? _SO??" _Wilson crumpled the paper and threw it at him, but its paltry bulk did not a missile make, and it fluttered to the floor between them in a sadly ineffectual show of rage. "So you could have killed her with your advice. You're not a doctor."

Greg sat up. "I am a doctor, _Senator_. Just because I'm not allowed to practice medicine doesn't me make any less of a medical man than you. In fact, I'm probably a better one."

James grabbed his own hair, trying to squeeze sense out of his patient's insanely confident nonchalance in the face of potential disaster. "For god's sakes, what if she _dies_?"

"She's not going to die. At least not today." Greg stood up, leaning on the bed to support his leg, rubbing his protesting thigh, and shouting at his host as forcefully as he could while bent over like a question mark after a bad night's sleep.

"So if she dies the day after tomorrow, that's okay??" Wilson challenged.

"She's got colon cancer, you idiot, of course she's going to die. Tomorrow. Next week, next year. I don't care, I just tried to make her more comfortable while she's doing it." Greg found he had to sit down again. The leg was on fire and his excitable host's mid-night row was not making it any better.

"How does halving her pain killers, prescribing Viagra pills to a woman without a penis, and high blood pressure pills to a woman without high blood pressure going to make her more comfortable?"

"Because, "doctor", Viagra shrinks colon tumors. If they shrink, she has less pain in her vagina, if she has less pain in her vagina, her husband, who is on Viagra, will be able to put the damn things to some use again by putting _himself_ to some use again. Get it?" While still seated, Greg stretched himself out as straight and as far as he could to better snarl into his host's face. "She takes Viagra, therefor tumor shrinkage. Less tumors, less bowel dysfunction. Less bowel dysfunction, less pain. Less pain, more sex. More sex, more endorphins, even lesser pain and less need for pain killers. They'll _both_ be living high."

Wilson stopped his flailing arms and his imagination's wild ride, thinking for a spare moment. "And the water pills for HPB,.."

"..she will now need because the Viagra will shoot her blood pressure through the roof." Greg waved to the crumpled note on the carpet. "You weren't here. I answered. I wrote it all down for you."

Wilson dropped his arms, instead placing them on his hips. Feeling a little ridiculous, though he knew he was still half-way in the right. "Oh. Oh, well, I guess that's...fine. Makes some sense. Sort of." Good, left field medical sense. "But you _still_ shouldn't have answered the phone."

"I was bored." He sighed. "I'm cooped up in here all day. There's nothing for me to do - you don't seem to want me to do _anything _but sit here and act like a good patient." Which was a bit weird. "I'm going _crazy_."

"I know." James said. Greg House was not supposed to be here at all. Knowing it was a lie and knowing Greg knew it, too - "You're still recovering." He fidgeted. "But next time, it could be more serious. Or it could be someone who might tell someone else. The _wrong_ someone else, and you could end up taken away." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the leg he had operated on, and crippled for life. "What if...what if something went wrong with the leg? Then what you do? "

At the time he hadn't thought of the risk to himself or his host. It was just one phone call. He hated the oppression under which he lived. One fucking phone call and he was at risk of losing what little he had -which was still almost nothing. Someone's generosity. That was all. It had felt wonderful to listen to symptoms, let his brain shuffle them around like a jigsaw puzzle, and come up with the correct picture. A treatment. An unadulterated, drug-like surge. A high. A fucking rush. For those measly few minutes, he hadn't thought of anything but being a doctor.

"Sorry."

"'S'okay." James said. "Just please be more careful."

James didn't want him taken away, and wasn't saying why. That was a little rush all by itself.

Wilson dropped his angry stance and jerked his head at his antagonizing doctor-patient. "Thirsty?"

"Of course. It's the middle of the night. I'm parched."

"Come on, I got a bottle of champagne." Wilson lead the way from the bedroom.

"What are we celebrating?"

"I just nearly had a coronary. I need a massive amount of alcohol. Medicinal purposes."

Greg followed his weirdly fascinating, and oddly contradictory host, down the long curved staircase. A drink sounded good.

A drink became a few and a few became many and soon the good senator was smiling and laughing at every crude joke coming from his guest's mouth. In fact, through the haze of alcohol, grumpy Greg suddenly possessed an awfully attractive mouth. James Wilson, floating on a fun cloud, decided he had been right about his first opinion of Greg's goods. The worker was very attractive, in an angry, scruffy, insufferable way.

"Y' know," Wilson said, Jack Daniel marbles between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, "yer a verrry good lookin' man. If I wasn' so go'damn drunk, I'd prob'bly would've jumped you t'night."

Greg looked back at him through a thick fog that in the last hour seemed to have, James thought with a frown, formed in his living room.

"Oh?" Good looking Greg said from a long way away. From far across the gargantuan coffee table. James didn't like such a big coffee table, he decided, lying on his side on his soft, soft couch. When did he buy _that_ continental barge? James frowned deeper. And when did his house get so big? He nodded. "Um-hm." He raised a hand to his forehead, and missed. "Scoutz'onor."

"You're really drunk, senator."

"No." He sat up, nearly falling over the other way. "No. Nope. 'm not a senator t'night. T'night we're f-frenzz." He raised an empty glass.

"Friends?"

"Yup." He noticed his own lack of liquid. "More delcioushsneshh..._shtuff _from my pal Daniels." He announced, raising his glass in the air. But booze didn't magically refill the tumbler this time. Greg had left the bottle sitting on the coffee table.

"You've had enough, James. You ought to sleep it off."

But James wasn't ready to give slumber the upper hand. Not yet. He winked across the coffee table to Greg who had settled himself down into a thick cushioned easy chair, his long, lovely legs stretched out on the coffee table, and crossed at the ankles. "Yer' mighty cute, Greg"

Greg snorted. "And you're a pathetic drunk." Greg noted, however, that Senator Wilson had imbibed more than half the champagne and nearly all of the sixteen ouncer of whiskey. In disdain he realized he was going to have the ignominious job of putting the full grown, three sheets to the wind man to bed.

Using the arm chair and the new cane the senator had brought home, Greg heaved himself to his feet. Maneuvering around the coffee table, he managed to wrestle the glass from James' wobbly grip, get his left arm beneath his host's left shoulder, and heaved. James came willingly, but he was little more than drunken dead weight.

One stair at a time, each man literally kept the other upright by sheer force of leverage and gravity. Each leaned against the other. Just one off-timed lurch a degree or two either way, and both would have come crashing down.

By the open door to the senator's room, James managed to extradite himself from his house guest's firm grip. "I'm not jus' drunk, Howsss," he slurred, "I'm horny as hell."

Greg found himself on the receiving end of a wet, sloppy smooch. The senator seemed to have grown extra limbs as he groped and fondled Greg against the door frame.

"Hey - " Greg managed to gather up his lecherous benefactor and steer him more-of-less toward the bed. Considering the sheer bulk of the king sized bed, it was shockingly difficult to set Wilson in a course for its soft, feather-down port. Finally, James crashed down on the mattress, but not before locking his slim, remarkably strong arms around Greg's waist and pulling him down with him.

Landing with a grunt, James tried to kiss him again, and despite the feel of willing lips on his face and neck, and the urgent tingling in his groin, Greg tried to wriggled free. But James was nothing if not determined to get layed, and the senator's hands were once again everywhere.

Greg gasped as James' free hand clutched his own hardening cock, and squeezed. "Yer' so hot." James whispered into his ear. "I really wanna' fuck you." He said breathlessly. "Bin' thinkin' 'bout it fer weeks."

James caught his mouth up in an urgent kiss. It felt so good, Greg let him continue for a few seconds, loving the long missed feel of someone's hungry mouth against his own. But then he made himself pry Jame's insistent fingers off his own member, and stood, disappointed that he needed to. Angry that he _had _to.

James was a sweet proposition, but this was a good gig he had going, and the last thing he wanted was to have his host the next morning shamefully remembering that he had broken one of the cardinal rules of doctoring by banging his own patient. Greg would probably find himself suddenly homeless, as the sensitive young oncologist spent weeks chastising himself with a flog.

Finally, Greg lifted Jame's long legs onto the mattress and left him to sleep it off. By the door, Greg switched off the light. He licked his lips. The senator would probably regret his social flounder in the morning - if he remembered, but maybe not so much that he would send his house guest out into the cruel world.

Greg felt a small pang of regret that he couldn't have let finish the delightfully drunken romp James Wilson had started. It had been a long, long time since anyone had touched him like that, in those places, and with such an innocent, honest and sincere lust - for a reason other than money. Booze-fired sex wasn't much better, but it was at least a step up.

A gentle snore arose out of the feathered pillows and Indian cotton sheets. "'Night, Wilson."

XXXX

tbc asap


	7. Chapter 7

**Rational Principle**

Part VIIf

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. **_**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

KEEP in mind this is a New Jersey that changes harshly. Unlike as in Gone With The World, where cannon normal becomes abnormal, in this AU, House and Wilson are born into a non-cannon AU, that then changes. Hmmm, not sure that makes sense.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hey, sorry about - "

"-you were drunk. Forget it."

Wilson paused as though considering whether the topic needed further exploring or not. He decided not, nodded and fetched himself a mug of Greg brewed coffee, stirring in several sugars and a half cream. He seated himself at the marble kitchen island two stools down from where Greg sat nursing his own one sugar, no cream mug of the black stuff.

Greg noted Wilson's seating arrangement with mild amusement. "What's on the agenda for today? And when I say agenda, I'm referring to yours. I still have nothing to do."

Wilson sipped, nodding again. "I've been thinking about that." He said. "How would you feel about being my new driver?"

House blinked, a little confused. "I thought you had a driver?"

"I do, but there's nothing that says I can't transfer her to house duties or something else. She's young. I could use another grounds-person - it's already May."

House glanced out the window situated above to his host's sprawling counter-space and industrial sized fridge. The grass was green and the sun was trying its best to shine through some depressing looking gray cloud cover. Yard work was not down his alley. His leg couldn't do that sort of alley ever again. "I'm a doctor."

Wilson smiled. "Well, you can't practice. But being my driver means you get to be with me while I'm doing my rare house calls, or when I need to be at my medical office. You could be my silent partner of sorts."

"You mean a consultant? Oncology is hardly a mystery disease anymore. You don't need me."

"I seem to remember you taking a call the other day."

Greg pursed his lips. "I wouldn't have to see the patients, would I?"

"Definitely not."

"But I would be stuck waiting in the car while you tended to your boring political duties. Not sure that's enough of a challenge."

"Better than waiting around here, isn't it?"

The younger politics man had a point. "'S'pose."

"Waiting in the car, sipping expensive coffee, listening to tunes. All crosses you will have to patiently bear, I admit."

Greg nodded once, and pushed his empty mug away. "Okay. Deal. What do I get for this work?"

Wilson said "Well, nothing of course. Workers, those who work outside the home anyway, can only draw wages on behalf of their adopted families, and I'm your family now. But," Wilson spread his hands out, "you get to live here, eat my food, drink my beer, sleep in my - I mean sleep in a nice bed. What more could you want?"

Ignoring the slip, Greg stared at him sadly. "Autonomy?"

Wilson felt for his friend. _Patient_. But he was becoming a friend. Greg was more than simply a man he had helped, he was a person now. Someone he wanted to see happy. _That's the definition of friend._ Wilson felt blood rush to his head at the shameful memory of his lustful advances the night before. Yes, Greg was desirable, too, but he was a worker, and he himself a politician. They may have come from the same world, but they lived in different ones now. Wilson shook such disquieting thoughts from his mind. "Great. You can start tomorrow."

XOX

"Yes, sir."

Wilson felt a twinge of guilt for sending Reena off to become his lawn maintenance girl, but it was swiftly pushed aside by the thought of having Greg with him during the day. Greg's wit cheering him up at the end of those dull, day-long sessions in the senate. Greg having a drink with him at night. Eating a meal together. Greg sleeping down the hall. It would almost be like having a room mate.

"I'm sorry, Reena, but circumstances have changed. I really need you in the yard now."

Reena, her hair folded into a bun with several rubber bands, and dressed in her new jeans, shirt and over-alls, obediently went off to report to the yard manager.

Wilson watched her go thoughtfully. She'd be all right. He'd given her a raise - more house priviledges - after all. That should soften the blow.

For Greg Wilson called a tailor out to the house and had his new driver measured for a properly fitted suit. "Black." Wilson said to the balding fellow who was on his knees measuring the in-seam of Greg's long legs. Greg tried to stand still, but it was obvious he hated all the fuss.

"Yes, sir." Old Mister Ricardo looked up at him. "Silk?"

Wilson shook his head. "But otherwise the best." Silk was gauche. Silk said mobster. But black...he couldn't wait to see how fair skinned Greg looked like dressed all in black. "With a bow tie."

"Yes, Senator. Hat?"

Wilson would love to forgo the ridiculous driver's hat, but without it Greg would stand out a little too much. Without the hat, Greg might appear too much like an Elite. And a good looking man sitting in the driver's seat of a limo someone might become curious about, might question.

But a man in a driver's hat at the wheel of his employers car - who cares about him?

"Yes. A hat. Make certain it fits properly."

"Worker," Mister Ricardo said with just a hint of snipe. "stop fidgeting."

Greg was leaning on his cane, easing his weight onto his left leg more and more. Wilson noted it. He also noted Ricardo's impatient word toward his new worker, and didn't like it one bit. "His name is Greg, Ricardo."

Ricardo nodded, but his attention was on his pins and measuring tape. "Certainly, certainly..."

Wilson was surprised at how much he was looking forward to having Greg as his personal driver. Although loath to admit it to anyone, let alone to himself, he had lived alone and had felt very lonely, for a long time, and Greg was the most refreshing intellect he had come across in years.

XOX

"What's on the agenda today, oh senator?"

His new driver was a trifle sarcastic in the performance of his duties, but it didn't bother him. Much. "A certain familiarity with me is fine, Greg, just so long as when I have dignitaries in the car with me, you keep things professional."

"Yeah, yeah." Greg was already bored and it was only his first day. Besides it was almost noon and he was hungry. "So where to?"

"La'Cai on the Lake."

"Fancy."

"Lunch with the president." Wilson explained, his mind distracted by it. He had not seen nor spoken to President Osuna since that day, and had committed an unforgivable social faux pax by not responding to her personal invitation to call around for tea. He eased his conscience on the matter by reminding himself that it hadn't exactly been an orthodox year for him, and the residual of that year was sitting in the driver's seat, mumbling. A desirable residual, but not one you'd call typical. "Lunch with the president today."

"Is she hot?"

Wilson frowned. Social good taste was not high on Greg's list of ought-to's. "She's...an excellent president."

"So _not_ hot."

"She's fifty-nine, of Japanese decent, trim, witty, smart as a whip, and she possesses a thing that has eluded most people in her position - a conscience. When it comes to the presidential seat, I'd call that sizzling."

"She _ir_rationally supports Rational Principle, that makes her no different than the rest."

"The Senate voted it in, and she wasn't even president when that was enacted."

"She has to the power to do something about it, and she hasn't."

"Maybe she will."

Greg's opinion of that was summed up in a snort. "Hah."

"Greg. Just drive, please."

"Yes, master."

Wilson sighed. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

XOX

"She's not attending?" Wilson whispered to Monroe, who always got under his skin by sitting next to him at almost every political function. It was annoying as hell. But then, Monroe was an excellent source of gossip, most of which happened to be true.

Monroe sipped his Italian sausage and potato soup. "Sick. Rumor has it she's been feeling unwell for some time, but it's been kept on the down-low."

"You've heard nothing of what it might be?" Wilson was truly worried now. He felt, from their personal exchange, that he had a closer relationship with her than most - however short that exchange had been. Osuna had touched him, and impressed him with her seemingly casual ability to peer into his soul. And he, he thought, had perhaps touched her the same way on some level. "This is awful news."

Monroe shrugged. "Maybe it's a woman's thing." He appeared unaffected and ate his soup.

A woman's thing. Right. Wilson recalled his wife waking up to cramps, back-aches, head-aches, complaining of pains shooting down her legs, and bleeding from her nether-regions one week per month, twelve months a year for the four years they were married. Yet she'd rise from bed, take a hot bath, down three acetaminophen and head off to her stressful job anyway. And most women underwent such regular mess and discomfort for thirty-five years of their life or more.

Wilson imagined what it might be like waking up to a aching, bleeding penis one week every month for half his life-time and marveled at how women put up with it. He himself would be inclined to check himself into a hospital and have the source of the misery immediately expunged from his body.

Wilson let his own soup go cold. The president sick? He knew Monroe had ambitions along that line. God forbid that he ever got in. Greg would be forever consigned to the fate political ideology had already dished out, his broken body put to use as nothing but tote and haul, and his skills as a doctor wasted. Wilson excused himself from the table, walked towards the men's room, and took out his wallet. He fished around in its interior for the much thumbed card handed to him by Osuna over a year ago. He hoped her personal assistant had not has his cell number changed or disconnected. Wilson took out his own cell phone and dialed the number.

XO

Osuna took his hand in greeting, and gestured he sit beside her. She was seated at her desk in the lavish hotel room, pouring over reports, and dressed in a soft mauve skirt-suit. Her make-up was as usual, subdued and tasteful, her nails polished to a fine pink shine. Her assistant stood by respectfully by, ready to attend to almost any request.

The president looked fine.

Wilson sat down and spoke. "I must apologize for not calling as you requested - "

" - as you _promised_, Doctor Wilson." She quietly chastised. She looked up from her notes. Pushing them aside, her expression was soft despite the tone of her disappointment. "I had _so_ looked forward to our tea together. But I understand," She then swiftly let him off the hook, "that your schedule as a man of politics _and_ medicine must be fatiguing indeed."

"That's very gracious of you, President Osuna."

"Please call me Katsu or, if you like, what my father called me - Katey."

"Uh, certainly presi - I mean Katey." It felt weird on his tongue, but it was only for this meeting of course. However, it is what she wished and he had no desire to disappoint her again. Somehow, Katsu Osuna had a way about her that she could smile sweetly, look you in the eye with her kind face and ask you to leap off the highest cliff in the Andes' - and you'd do it for her gratefully. Osuna could persuade and convince while appearing to do so without even trying. She was old-world charm at its most refined.

Wilson cleared his throat. He had to ask. "I heard you were...un-well. Is everything all right?"

"Oh yes." She dismissed it with a wave of one delicate hand. "Just under the weather - it's nothing. My doctor doesn't even know what it is, so how bad can it be?"

Wilson smiled, but did not feel reassured. He'd had plenty of patients sent to him with the cancerous consequences of what had been "just a twinge", or "feeling a little weak lately" and, despite all his efforts and the drugs of modern medicine, stood by helplessly as they slowly died. "Please let me know if there's anything I can do."

"Doctor Kajunnga tells me I'm a bit of a hypochondriac."

Wilson knew of such doctors. When nothing amiss could be found, rather than admit they do not know what it is, and so possibly lose their patient to another practitioner, they subtly shift the blame for the symptoms onto the shoulders of their patient, convincing them with educated, perhaps even slightly patronizing words, that perhaps the patient is worrying needlessly; that there is probably nothing really going on at all. What physician would wish to lose a patient as famous and career-making as the President of the North American Union? "Still, I'd like to help if you'll allow me? Perhaps you could simply describe to me your symptoms? I could consult, in confidence of course, with my partner - he's an excellent physician. Much smarter than me."

Osuna looked back at him, perhaps to gauge whether she ought to share such a private matter with a doctor not her own, someone not on her staff. "Thank you, James." She said.

Not the answer he had expected and Wilson speculated if her ill-health was concerning her more than she let on.

Osuna smiled kindly. "I would appreciate that."

XO

"What's wrong with her?" Greg asked that evening over dinner, which Wilson had brought home from the local pizza shop. He was tired of gourmet soups and over-cooked quail soaked in white wine and marjoram. Pizza was...comforting. Food you shared right from the box, and eaten with your fingers. Ruffian and messy, yet intimate.

"Well, I don't think it's cancer, and it doesn't sound like auto-immune but," Wilson glanced over his pizza crust at Greg, who was beginning his third slice of a Meat-lever's special, "as you know that's not my area. It's almost as though she had an systemic infection except according to what her doctor told her, her blood work was clean. But her symptoms suggest infection. She has some inflammation in her joints, and they are a little painful, so he put her on a regiment of anti-biotic's."

"Only clean of anything he thought to look for. Tell me he did an RF test at least."

"Yes. Negative."

"Hmm..."

Wilson could see the figurative wheels spinning inside his friend's skull. "Did he get an x-ray? Check for osteo'? - she's the right age. Osteo' plus excessive-activity equals joint inflammation and pain."

"Nothing on the x-ray. And she swims and takes long walks. All joint non-stressing."

House chewed and thought. "What about her lungs? Early stages of emphysema would not show on an x-ray."

"She's never smoked."

"Is she fat?"

"Not really. Few pounds overweight maybe."

"Where did she grow up?"

"Japan."

"What part?"

"Don't know."

"Well, find out." House insisted. "If she grew up in Osaka-Kobe, she might have been exposed to pollutants as a child. That can lead to lung disease, and the early stages of emphysema. Less efficient pumping, less oxygen to the tissues, more inflammation and pain."

"I saw no swelling."

"I said early stages. You said she does a lot of walking and swimming, that would help make it less noticeable, even to her. What family physician who got a C-average would worry about some minor ankle swelling in a sixty-year-old patient?"

"He probably got the job because he's well qualified."

"He got the job because of political connections or because he's a cousin by marriage. You're pretty naive for a senator."

Osuna's illness was all speculation at this point. Wilson would have to talk to Katey - president Osuna, again. "I'll talk to her again."

XO

Greg was off duty on the following Sunday, though Wilson had a last minute emergency at his office. He came home early, though, and Greg heard him speaking into his cellular as he closed the front door. "Again, I'm sorry to hear about this, Reg'. Let me know if there's anything I can do. Okay. See you in two weeks. Don't worry about the office - we'll handle things, it's fine."

Wilson hung up and heard Greg's and his dot-and-go-one limping down the hall to greet him. Wilson explained. "Reg's mother died. He's flying to Spain tonight."

"So you'll be at the office more?"

Wilson heard the tension in his driver's voice. "No. Not really. I'll hire a temp' or something. Jeremy Hiddick owes me one. Maybe I'll call him."

Greg was looking at him with the oddest expression. Wilson wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment. "What about me?"

"What about you?"

Greg tapped his cane on the imported marble. "_Hello?_ I'm a doctor. I can handle a few days of seeing already diagnosed and dying cancer patients."

"No you can't. Not legally. And it's two weeks."

Greg set his lips and his expression turned cold as the marble beneath his three feet. "So. Rational Principle wins over good sense. No one will know."

Wilson shed his coat. "I'll know. I'm a senator, I can't go around flouting law."

"Not unless it suites you, you mean. not unless you're itching to get your rod into some poor crippled slobs backdoor."

"Wilson swallowed. Yes, he had tried to seduce Greg, but he'd been drunk at the time. Did he find Greg attractive? Was he desirable? Did he find himself jerking off in the shower to sleazy, nude visions of his house-guest-turned-driver? Yes to all. But that compared to out-and-out fraud. No chance in hell. "I like you - I admit it, but I have to think of my position, and the risk."

"You worried I'm going to kill someone?"

Wilson realized he had not made himself clear. Quietly. Dead seriously. "I'm worried someone will find out about you and take you away from me." He was already in a daily fret regarding that possibility. He hated to be forced to say it aloud, but he was becoming very fond of Greg House. Almost to the point of no going back. Close to wanting much more than just his social company and saying so. Nearly on the verge of telling him over dinner or a movie. Dying to kiss him, hungering for his body. "And I don't want that to happen."

Greg had indeed not considered that his master-employer was worried about his welfare more than that of his patients. So the senator wanted a live-in illegal companion who could only be a doctor when it suited him? When it benefited _him_? "Gee, thanks, pop." Greg sneered. "Don't you get it? I could really help you, I could really have a _life_. But instead I'm stuck turning corners and bringing coffee. I'm wasting my time, my skills and my mind driving you around. This whole situation is retarded. You stuck a chauffeur in the garden and a physician behind a wheel. Rational Principle is up-side-fucking-down - don't you _see_ that?" He was tired of it all. Tired of watching himself get older with nothing to show for it while people with ten times his luck and an 'nth his talent went places and did things. Not even an satisfying intellectual life to look back on. For the first time in years he felt like crying. "I _hate_ this!"

Wilson nodded. Half the world must feel the same way. "If I let you treat people and we're found out, we both lose everything. Do you understand? Position, home, job, future, freedom - _everything."_

Greg huffed through his nose. As simple a put-down as there was. "_I_ have nothing to lose, remember?"

Wilson swallowed, screwing up his courage. "_I_ don't want to lose you." He stared at the floor. "You're important to me."

Greg turned and walked back down the hall. "Why? There are always plenty of drivers, Wilson."

"Where are you going?"

"Out of here."

"What?" Wilson jogged to catch up, which took him about three seconds. "What do you mean, leaving?"

Greg climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Wilson followed. "I mean leaving." Greg explained. He rummaged around in the closet until he found his old, worn, street- stunk duffle bag, and began to thrust the clothes Wilson had bought him into it. Then he changed his mind, dumped them out, and rammed his old jeans, shirts and winter coat inside, zipping it up. "Someone see's me, a nobody without ID in new clothing, they'll probably think I stole them. Rational Principle and all."

Beginning to panic - "Please don't do this." Wilson asked, following Greg's every step.

"It's already done."

"Please don't go." He followed Greg's slow descent down the curved stairwell. "Please?" He asked. "We'll figure something out."

Greg limped to the back door. "Better start figuring."

Wilson ran shaking fingers through his hair. "I don't...what...well,...what if I..." He could find nothing. Not a spark of a solution that wasn't illegal or frankly dangerous. Greg was a worker. No rights. Not even a citizen in the legal sense. "Um..."

Greg threw his duffle bag over his shoulder. "Maybe I'll see you sometime."

Wilson stepped in front of the door. "Greg, please, please stay. We'll talk about it."

"Enough fucking _talk_ - get outta' my way."

Wilson didn't move. "No. I'm not moving."

Greg raised his walking stick above his head in a threatening manner. "I've got a cane and I'm not afraid to use it."

Wilson didn't budge, though his eyes never left the lethal looking thing. He'd bought Greg a top of the line, heavy, brass handled beast and it was capable of doing significant damage in the right hands. "No. You'll...you'll have to beat my head in to get me to move."

Greg lowered the cane, and Wilson relaxed. But it was too soon to count score as Greg suddenly hooked the curved handle of the cane around Wilson's right foot and pulled hard. Wilson crashed to the floor, and Greg stepped over him, opening the door.

But Wilson was fast with his hands and hooked his left hand around Greg's left ankle, causing him to lose his balance and sway to the right. His right leg, unable to handle the whole weight of his body, buckled and he fell hard. For a few seconds they rolled around, struggling in the opened doorway with the cold air blowing in, until both were breathless.

Greg shook him off and rolled until he was sitting on his backside on the hard marble, cursing his bruised right knee. "You're nuts, you know that?"

Wilson sat up. "Well, I brought you home, so I guess I am."

While Wilson was distracted with a sore elbow, Greg made a scramble on his hands and knees for the door again, but not before Wilson got both arms around his waist and hung on for dear life. "Greg. Stop."

"No." Now it was a game of wills, and Greg struggled for all he was worth, but the effort was rapidly winding him. He still had pain in his leg and that plus the dash to freedom had left him sweating and ready to concede defeat. "Fuck you!"

Wilson's face darkened and he tightened his grip on his patient's body. "I wish." He rolled him over and lay flat on him, head to tip, pressing down while Greg wriggled and cursed him and his mom. Ignoring Greg's colorful expletives, Wilson took the man's scratchy face between his hands and kissed him full on the mouth. Then paused to let Greg breath. "I fucking wish." He said again and kissed him hard again before Greg could render a single peep in protest.

The kiss turned gentle, then passionate. Then it stopped and Wilson lifted his face enough to stare directly into Greg's startled blue eyes. "You can't leave. I _fucking_ love you."

XXX

TBC ASAP


	8. Chapter 8

**Rational Principle**

Part VIII

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. ** _**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

KEEP in mind this is the regular New Jersey that changes harshly. Unlike as in Gone With the World, where cannon _normal becomes abnormal_, in this AU, House and Wilson are born into _a non-cannon AU_, and then _it_ changes. Hmmm, not sure that makes sense.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The heat of someone else`s body next to his brought him from sleep into a pleasant realm of woozy contentment. Wilson rolled over to find the long back of Greg House nestled up to his left side. His worker turned lover was still snoozing.

A quick bit of morning sex would be a perfect way to start the weekend, and he ran a few fingers along the sloping side of Greg`s rib cage. Flesh, finally, was firm there again. Muscle restored to its correct form, well-fed and tight. Skin; soft and golden, that twitched seductively under his light touch.

Wilson`s unspoken message woke Greg with a start, and he rolled over to look into the eyes of his master turned seducer.

"Don`t think this makes me your home-boy." Were Greg`s first words.

Wilson felt his erection die as Greg crawled from the bed, headed to the en-suite and said over his shoulder. "We fucked. Don`t read anything more into it than that." And slammed the door.

XX

Breakfast still in his mouth, Wilson watched Greg sip a mug of coffee in silence. "I meant what I said last night."

Greg nodded. "Figured."

Wilson contemplated his un-eaten slice of bacon. Synthetic. Bean-protein spiced, pressed and shaped to appear almost like the real thing. Cheaply mass-produced meat. The flavour - not quite right. The color - artificial. The smell... neutral. No real odour at all.

He was a senator. He could have real bacon if he wanted it. He had the money and the influence. But it felt wrong to be eating luxury items all the time when most of the world had to make do with mock-spam and canned potatoes.

"You feel nothing for me at all?"

"What am I supposed to feel? Gratitude?" When his host said nothing in response, he asked a question of his own. "You fucked a worker. That`s not legal."

Wilson shrugged, now thoroughly depressed. He could think of no response that wasn`t laced with swirling emotions even he wasn`t sure he could yet sort out. Clearly, Greg did not love him. If Greg felt anything at all for him, Wilson was too worried to ask, less he be even more disappointed by the answer.

Finally he settled for another shrug. "It felt right." He knew it was a lame answer, but it was honest at least. He looked across the kitchen island at his lover-guest. "Just for the record – I don`t think of you as my home-boy."

Greg swallowed the dregs of his cup and held it over the island to his host. "Prove it."

Puzzled, Wilson stared at the empty mug. "How?"

"Give me a real job, like we discussed. With pay."

He was willing. It was dangerous, but Greg had already proven to be a smart as a whip diagnostician. Rosemary Castillo, the patient Greg treated over the phone was doing much better. _Feeling wonderful,_ as had been her words to him on the phone a few days previously. "That patient is doing well." Wilson knew he was about to cave to his demands. He loved this man. He knew he was deeply in love in fact with this frustrating, obnoxious, brilliant, sexy, captivating man. He knew he was in deep, deep do-do.

"What patient?"

How could he not remember? Perhaps Greg might not do so well with doctor/patient relations. He had interacted with exactly one sick person, and then promptly forgotten all about her.

"The woman you prescribed Viagra for? She`s doing well."

"Oh." He nodded. A completely apathetic response. To Greg, it seemed, patient treated, cured, sent home...whatever.

No, not a doctor you send when congeniality and a kind hand is a must. And, for most of his patients, they were.

"Pay, huh?" Wilson considered the logistical difficulties of that one. "You realise you can`t go out and spend any of it anywhere?"

"I know." Greg nodded. "It`s the principle. I`m worth it."

Wilson wasn`t about to argue that one. "It`ll be risky. If we get caught..."

"You`ll deny all knowledge."

Easier said than done. The authorities for one, were not idiots. Rational Principle was appearing to him, as more and more of a tyrant`s social experiment, but it had its benefits. RP did hold certain rationality for the saving of mankind. Sacrifice the rights and freedoms of many to assure the survival of future generations and their rights and freedoms.

Plus there was his conscience. He did not think he could deny his role in this just to save his own skin, if it came to that. Greg House had entered his life and altered it forever by thoroughly smashing to bits his previous convictions that the Union was doing the only thing it could do to save humanity. Bastard!

"Okay. You`re hired, but only as a consultant. No patient interaction at all. You consult from here, at home, and only to me and only by my private cell phone. If I find you`ve spoken to Reggie or anyone at the office – or anyone anywhere for that matter – we`ll both be up the creek without a tongue depressor. In fact," the more he thought about it, the more he realized he needed to very carefully arrange this insane idea, "I consult with _you_." It was the only way to keep them both safe. "_You_ don`t call me at all unless I call you first."

Wilson held out his hand, waiting for Greg to shake on their agreement. "Deal?"

Greg looked at his benefactor`s hand. "One more thing before we shake on this."

What else? Greg was being given more than was reasonable. They were _both_ risking their freedoms. "What else could you possible want?"

Greg`s mug was still in his hand. "Another coffee. And this time, more sugar cheap-skate."

XX

"She's in the hospital."

Wilson sipped his Earl Grey tea, wishing he was anywhere but having lunch with Senator Monroe. Nice restaurant. Lousy company. "She?"

He knew Monroe was talking about the president. Osuna was his favourite topic of gossip for that the chauvinist pig couldn't well tolerate the idea of a woman being in charge of the Union, never mind one as deadly sharp as Osuna. So on-the-ball that she easily out-smarted him.

"Osuna. Her own doctor's there. Who knows? She might not make it."

_You wish_. Still, Wilson did not like the sound of that. He pulled out his wallet, calling for the bill. "This is on me, okay?"

"What? No dessert?" Though Monroe was pleased.

"Thanks, no. Need to get to the office."

"How do you find time to be a doctor, James? All those snotty noses and bowel noises. I couldn't stand it myself."

James just smiled.

"House."

"Yes, Master and commander?"

James frowned. Greg was still his driver on top of now being his unofficial consulting diagnostician. "You know, no one likes a smart ass."

"Y_ou're_ the one who hired me. What's the problem?"

"We need to make a detour to the hospital."

"Which one?"

Osuna was still in town and would be as long as she was still sick. "The General."

"That's where your president' staying."

"She's everyone's president, and yes. I'm worried."

"Maybe I should take a look at her?"

"_I'll_ take a look at her. _You_ stay in the car with your hat on. The place is probably crawling with G-Men. Besides this is a social call."

XX

Not seconds after Senator and Doctor James Wilson (after a proper pat-down), was allowed entry into the president's private room, his phone rang. Wilson smiled warmly at the president in apology (though it was unnecessary since she appeared to be asleep), raised one finger anyway to beg her patience (just in case she wasn't asleep), and answered his ringing phone.

Impatiently, and without looking at the call display - "Yes?"

"How's she look?"

Wilson turned away from Osuna's near-by ears, stood in one corner of the room and growled into the tiny microphone. "Greg. I told you never to call me."

"That was so this morning. Stop living in the past. _How_ does she look?"

"We are _not_ doing this." He hung up.

The device immediately trilled again, and Wilson answered less its insistent and annoying ringing wake her up. "Greg, I just told you- "

"-pale, flushed, waxy, blotchy?"

"Stop calling me, Greg, this is-"

"Rash, edema, fever, chills? Come on, I haven't got all day."

Wilson sighed, closing his eyes on the inevitable defeat heading his way crashing its brass cymbals. "Just a second." Thankfully the president had not awoken, and he crept over to her bed.

Her face was thinner, but just barely. It may have been the effect that she was laying almost flat on her back. Her skin was dry and pale, and she appeared to have no fever. James related these symptoms to Greg, more to shut him up than because he himself needed any consulting assistance at this point. Besides this was just a social call anyway. "Can I go now?" He whispered fiercely into the tiny phone.

"How old is she? Does she have any history of digestive upset? What about her family – do they -?"

"Look, I just got here, and her doctor hasn't exactly handed me her file and said "go to town"."

"Well, get the history and call me back. Get blood, stool and urine samples, too."

"How the _hell _am I supposed to get those? I am not, I remind you, her personal physician."

"But you are her friend." Greg's most infuriatingly reasonable voice calmly answered back, "find a way, and call me back. Better yet, bring them to me and we'll run the labs ourselves."

"Greg, I will do no such insane thing. I'm hanging up now."

"You're right." Greg said - again cool as a cucumber salad. "What was I thinking? It is crazy. Better to let her die, so what'z-name can get into office. What do we want with a reasonable, fair-minded president like her anyway? Forget the whole thing." He hung up.

Wilson stared at the blank screen. How could he get what Greg wanted without Osuna's doctor or the president herself finding out? He supposed he could just wake her up and ask, but what if she said no, or asked a lot of probing questions? Ones he had no truthful answers for? After all, how often does anyone, just out of curiosity as a friend, request a sample of your stool? Or want to drain a vial or two of your blood, just to be neighbourly?

The bathroom was there, off to his right. What if...? He checked the toilet. Upon close inspection, he found trace amounts of runny stool resting on the bottom of the tank, just where the pipe began to curve under the over-hang. Probably remnants of Osuna's last bowel movement. It was unlikely anyone else would pop into the president of the Union's private hospital bathroom to fire off a missile without permission.

Wilson searched for and found the tiny bathroom cup dispenser. He also found and donned a pair of latex gloves from the toilet tank cover, where the assigned cleaning staff had so thoughtfully left a box sitting. Taking one of the waxed paper cups, Wilson reached down into the water and managed to scoop a very small amount of the stool into it, and then with great patience draw the cup up from the water without losing the sample to the now disturbed water.

He stuffed the tiny cup into another sterile glove and tied the end of it closed with a fourth.

What about urine? Osuna was hooked up to a catheter, and there was a recent wash of urine in the bag. Fresh urine was better, but the used portion was all he had to work with. He certainly couldn't insert a needle into the woman's abdomen to get the fresh stuff which, undoubtedly, Greg would demand if he thought it was remotely possible.

Gathering the urine was a simple matter of unhooking the drain line from the bottom of the bag, and letting some of the Ol' Yeller' trickle into another latex glove - tying this one off as well.

Obtaining a blood sample would not be so simple. There were no vials of the stuff laying around the room for his convenience. Getting even a single vial without waking up his president would be impossible. But perhaps, if he went about it the right way, getting a tiny sample would not be too difficult.

Wilson quietly searched the room, opening doors so they would not creek, and carefully sliding our drawers so they did not squeak, until he found what he was looking for – a disposable razor. A straight-edge would have been easier, or even an old-fashioned double-sided job, but this would have to do.

Concealing himself in the bathroom, and using his tiny pocket knife, Wilson hacked at the tough plastic until he was able to extract one of the triple edged single sided razors. It was enough to cut the skin, but not too deeply. Enough to gather a few drops but not seriously injure.

Wilson took another pair of latex gloves and a new square of facial tissue from a few layers down in the box (so to secure the most sterile example). He carefully removed the thin blanket and sheet to expose Osuna's feet.

When stealing blood, location was everything. The outside flesh of the foot was the least sensitive part of the very sensitive organ. It wasn't ideal but it was the only choice. Osuna might feel the prick of pain in her sleep and she might, nor might not, wake up. Either way, he had a ready explanation for her should she awaken.

"_The razor blade got mixed up in the bed sheets, Missus President, and I was attempting to remove it."_ Something like that.

Pretty fucking weak, but he supposed he'd come up with on-the-spot brilliance when or if he was caught in the act of maiming the president of the Union.

Amazingly, she did not wake up, and Wilson made a fast retreat with his stolen goods, tossing the weird collection of human body samples into the front seat beside Greg House, the cause of all his new miseries.

Greg fingered the odd assortment with curious fingers.

"_There."_ The Senator said to his limo driver. "Go nuts."

XXXX

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

**Rational Principle**

Part VIII

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. ** _**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

KEEP in mind this is the regular New Jersey that changes harshly. Unlike as in Gone With the World, where cannon _normal becomes abnormal_, in this AU, House and Wilson are born into _a non-cannon AU_, and then _it_ changes. Hmmm, not sure that makes sense.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"We're going to need lab equipment you know." House reminded him as he manuvered the limo into its cozy, extra-long three car garage.

"I know. I have a work-shop."

"A work-shop?" Greg asked him as he turned off the engine. "You have a work-shop lab?"

"Yes."

"So if you show me this lab, in it I'll find a DNA Sequencer?"

"Correct."

"And an incubator?"

"Um huh."

"A Rocker? A Hemacytometer? Refractometer ? An eight-key Differential Counter?"

"I'm a senator."

"Spoken like a true pork barrel pig." Greg did not open the door for his employer, an extra stipulation he had made when agreeing to the job. He only opened the door for him when they were out in public, and then only if he wasn't mad at his boss-lover.

Wilson opened his own door and climbed out.

"Why haven't I seen this lab'?" Greg asked. "I'm sure I've snooped through every corner of this mausoleum"

"That's because it's in my basement behind a secured door which is behind a bookshelf."

"What'r you trying to be – a secret agent?"

"No." Wilson didn't know if he should tell Greg the real reason or not. He wasn't in the mood for a socio-philosophical discussion. "I set it up for Reggie, so he could run lab tests on aban – on workers. The regular hospitals won't use their resources unless the worker is in an adoptive state."

"What a nice country you've set up, senator."

Greg often resorted to the political moniker whenever he found himself in profound disagreement with the workings of Wilson's political office, which was almost always. But even he didn't seem in the mood for an argument and, much to Wilson's relief, dropped it at that. Greg was clearly more anxious to get to work before the samples degraded than to exchange heated words. "Show me the way, doc'."

After several hours, and then days, waiting for results, all that was left was to wait for the cultures to mature. The "days" part, Wilson knew well enough. Diagnostics was not a one night only performance.

"Anything?" Wilson asked after a haggard Greg abandoned his efforts at the laboratory work, appearing in the kitchen for a well earned lunch and coffee. A late Sunday afternoon meal of vegetable soup and sandwiches. Greg had been at it since Thursday night.

Greg shook his head and nibbled unenthusiastically at the mock chicken sandwich. "Nothing conclusive."

That was disappointing. "No idea at all?"

"I need her family medical history. I need to talk to her."

"No chance in hell."

"Then I need_ you_ to talk to her. In detail. You were just in her hospital room on Thursday, why didn't you talk to her then?"

"I was busy stealing her body parts for _you_. Thank god she didn't wake up."

"Well go back and, this time, talk too."

"I'm not her physician."

"Have you even tried? Maybe she hates her regular doctor. Maybe you could arrange for her to hate him and hire you?"

Wilson sipped his soup, shaking his head. "And how, I am afraid to ask, in the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"Forge a prescription in her doctor's name for something that has an unpleasant side-effect – only temporarily of course."

"Right," Wilson nodded, pretending to take the idea seriously for a moment, "I could break into his office – which is in the_ White House _– break into his desk, practise signing his name until perfected, write President Osuna a weeks' 'script for Vanadyl Sulfate, while evading a small army of heavily armed Security. Oh! – and then sit back and wait for the president to run into my waiting, welcoming arms. Brilliant!" Wilson threw Greg a long look of irritation. "All that will do is get an innocent doctor fired and me arrested. The president will have a green tongue, and I'll be in jail."

"So I'm not a detail man." House pushed his bowl away. "Let's hear your bright idea."

Wilson thought about it. He hadn't actually taken Osuna up on her invitation to tea. He still felt bad about that, and she had reminded him more than once. Maybe now was the right time? "I'll go have a cup of tea with her."

Greg looked at him like he was kidding. "She's in the hospital."

"I'll call her assistant to find out when she's going home, and we'll have tea."

"Fine. While you're at it, I need another sample of her urine. Fresh, this time." Before Wilson could protest on just how, Greg added "Figure it out. Distract her after she takes a pee or something."

"Or something. So in other words, try to get it from the toilet. What about contaminants?"

"It's all we got."

"What if she doesn't go pee while I'm there."

"She's getting old, she'll go pee."

"I'll see what I can do."

"How do you know she'll invite you to tea? How well do you know the president anyway?"

"Well enough to steal body parts it would seem. So well enough to drink tea with her, I guess."

"You're a weird guy, Wilson."

President Osuna was delighted with her favourite senator's idea of tea. "I'm delighted that, finally, you are coming to tea." Had been her gently reproving words to him via her assistant's over-the-phone quote.

Wilson felt the tiny sting of her good mannered reprimand for taking so long to accept her invitation. Honestly, at the time he had thought she was being merely polite. What president has time to sip tea with some back-bencher politician? Apparently, this president made the time, and Wilson was soon being escorted to President Osuna's private living rooms in the White House. He was a long way from home, but she soon helped him feel at ease by asking about his work. His non-political work.

"I-I'm surprised you remembered that, Missus President." He stuttered.

"Your work with the homeless is a good work, James, yet you seem reluctant to speak of it."

"Well, it was only once or twice. Time restraints, you know." He smiled sheepishly. Of course the president of the Union would understand already about time restraints. She was the busiest woman in the world.

"Of course, but anything worth-while takes time and energy. How has your friend been faring? Reginald, was it?"

"Reggie, yes. He's well." Wilson hadn't had much time to keep up with Reggie's activities of late. He was far too busy in his own personal life since then. "He still volunteers at the shelter –which makes me wonder, Missus President – "

"- please call me Katsu."

"Er, yes, of course, Katsu." It felt strange on his lips. But he didn't wish to displease her. "Do you for-see any change in the current state of Rational Principle? It seems we are wasting the talents of so many who were unfortunate enough to be consigned to the status of Worker – which is almost no status of any kind." Had he said that correctly? Had it come across smoothly enough? Was he being too forward? Osuna was quiet for a moment, and he was terrified that he had blown the whole thing before it had begun.

"Well,' she said, obviously giving it serious consideration. Osuna rarely gave anything less than her full attention. The woman was a mental power-house. "I agree with you. So many lost so much. I must admit that when Rational Principle came through, my family was in a position to be shielded from it."

_Good thing, too_. Wilson couldn't imagine a Union with anyone else in power.

"But what do we do with eight billion to feed but not the land to place them? Do we grant everyone freedom again? To live where they wish? To grow and eat only for themselves? To work and birth, and expand the population even more? How will we save them when the resources finally run out? As it is, most food operations are struggling. The weather is against us, and has been for years."

Yes, climate change. A natural, normal thing that had occurred repeatedly for eons. But never had it occurred with eight billion humans depending on the planet for food and space, and that planet unable to provide it. Never before had significant numbers of humans existed to have felt the impact of it. Climate change was a thing that animals, plants, insects - life – had learned to adapt to, again and again. Modern man had taken up conquering, not adaption. Modern man wanted instead of needed; desired unnecessary things instead of instinctively hungering for those simple elements that sustained him. People, the elite and workers alike, all needed the same things: food, shelter, clothing, warmth. But both also desired property, money, even luxury.

Earth could no longer answer that call.

"It is a perplexing problem, James. It is disheartening, even depressing." Osuna said.

Yes, depressing. The equator was too hot, the poles melting away faster and faster. Antarctica was losing its shield of ice, the frozen, barren dead tundra beneath exposed now to the harsh, freezing, drying winter winds. Everywhere it was either too wet to grow food, or too dry; too cold, or too hot; too windswept, or too waterlogged.

The only relatively empty, still somewhat healthy space on the planet now was the very harsh northern countries. The old Siberia, the Old Canada, the old tip of Alaska, places where, if you were on your own with no Union to place and supply you, no families to take you in, no material supports of any kind, life sat on the sharp-iced edge almost every moment. Though the Inuit had survived there for thousands of years, the north allowed no mistakes. You had to be almost super human to live there. And, some said, foolishly courageous. A freedom-_flight_er. Freedom-Flighters, it was said, had a death wish.

"I understand." Wilson was hoping to have gathered some new ideas from Osuna; things perhaps she was herself thinking about; ways to improve the lives of billions. But, as intelligent and generous; as kind a woman as she was; she was a realist. She understood only too well the limits of even her power to effect change for the better.

Osuna excused herself and stood. Wilson watched her walk the many feet toward her private ladies room. Now was his chance, but how was he to "distract" her, so that she would exit the bathroom without flushing, and so that he could enter? Osuna was the very height of good breeding and social graces, she would never deem to allow someone to use her private washroom without flushing the toilet, washing, and straightening the towels afterward up to boot.

Suddenly it occurred to him to simply ask her for the sample. Why resort to subterfuge when the truth might just do? Besides, he could think of no other possible way to get what he wanted. She was almost at the door. "Missus president..."

She turned. "Yes, James? Is the tea gone cold? I could have more brought in."

Wilson took a silent breath of courage and stood, walking to her. He stood very close with a grave look of gentle concern on his face. He reached out and took one of her hands. He knew it was bold, it could backfire easily. But it was this or nothing. "I am very concerned about your health, and I know this is out-of-line, intrusive, perhaps, but please hear me out before you say no." He took a second breath to calm his nerves. Affecting his very best caring doctors face, he plunged ahead. "I am certain that you are in very good hands with your current physician. In fact, I have every confidence that he is an excellent man but..," He shook his head a little out of his own craziness for even trying this. Fortunately, Osuna took it as an expression of great worry. "..It would ease my mind greatly to reassure myself that your health is not in any danger." He looked into her eyes. Wilson himself knew he had sweet, soothing, melting brown eyes and he used their full power. "iI would like the opportunity to confirm your own doctor's prognosis - unofficially of course. This would in no way reflect on him. If you choose, he need not even know about my concerns. This is something i am behoved to keep between only us. If you'll let me."

Osuna looked back, and he could see the effect his words were already having on her. Even kind, old ladies were often bewitched by good looking younger doctors. "Well, I don't know...I mean, what you need for me to do. James?"

Still using his first name, that was good. "Simply provide me with a urine sample. I could confirm that your health is fine, and it would bring my worry to an end." Leave the easing of his worries up to her. She could hardly resist such an endearing request.

"Well, i suppose,...but how..?"

Wilson walked to the bar near where they sat with tea and scones, retrieved a paper-wrapped, plastic cup from a tray where some were stacked besides paper-wrapped lead crystal glasses. He unwrapped one plastic cup and handed it to her. Please. Mid-stream. I only need a few ounces."

She took the cup with uncertain hands.

"This is very kind of you, Missus Osuna, to indulge my concerns that is." He made sure not to lay it on too thickly but added. "I'm afraid I can't help but be a worrier, especially about a friend."

Osuna took the plastic cup. "Well, if you feel that strongly about it, I suppose I ought not to refuse." She entered the washroom, closing the door after her.

Once she had finished, she handed the cup, which she had been careful to wrap up in two layers of paper towel, to Wilson and retook her seat. He thanked her and set the cup aside, down by his briefcase so as to not forget it.

Osuna sighed. She looked haggard. An un-comely state James was shocked not to have noticed at first. But Osuna was one to keep a stiff upper lip. "Now I feel I miust ask: are you really feeling better, Katsu? I heard you were hospitalized for a few days." _I was actually there_. Wilson felt it prudent not to mention that small fact. Nor the tiny samples he had stolen from off her very personal person, including urine.

"My doctor believes it'll pass."

Well-worn, useless talk from a man who had no idea why his president was unwell. "Perhaps I could be of help? Beyond satisfying my own worries, I mean. I'm curious. Did he take a family history? Medically I mean?"

"Oh, yes."

Wilson was afraid she was going to offer nothing further but then she continued. "Diabetes on my mother's side. And I've always had a bit of thyroid myself." She poured a third cup of tea for herself.

"Hyper or hypo?" Wilson cleared his throat. "Over or under-active?"

"Oh, over. I've always had difficulty maintaining my weight. But I have pills for that."

Iodine. A simple treatment. "What about other symptoms? You seem fatigued. Hyperthyroid would hardly be indicated." He ought to be more careful how he phrased things. For all he knew, Osuna adored her current physician.

"Dry skin, and some leg pain." She smiled. "I'm getting old, doctor Wilson. It's no surprise things aren't working as well as they used to. My doctor hospitalized me because I had a bit of a cold, and because he's as much of a worrier as you I suspect. Run all the tests you like on my, er, _sample_, but I am sure I'm fine."

She was only sixty or so, hardly ready for the nursing home. "Of course." He assured her with a small smile that he was not worried, but it was a lie. He was worried, even if he didn't think there was anything substantial to worry about just yet. "Sometimes, though, things can seem innocuous, when they aren't."

"Oh. I understand, James. Senator Monroe for example..."

They spent the remainder of the relaxing afternoon tea discussing politics.

"Osuna needs kidney and liver scans. Biopsies would be even better."

Wilson stopped kissing him, and Greg kept talking. Wilson knew he had the question all over his face. "What was wrong with her urine?" Why else would Greg want her kidneys and liver checked out? "What are you not telling me?"

"She complained of leg pain."

"Yes."

"I found proteins in her urine."

Wilson didn't like the sound of that though it wasn't conclusive of anything yet. "Kidney disease?"

"Or something where that is a symptom of."

"Shit." But how to ask for a biopsy. "A blood sample ought to do."

"An image would be better."

Wilson stared down at this unusual man who was his house-guest, employee and lover. Illegal, all three. "One thing at a time." He kissed Greg again to shut him up, rolled over on top of him, and turned out the light.

Time for some home-grown treatment of the bedroom variety.

XXXXX

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

**Rational Principle**

Part Xff

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. **_**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

KEEP in mind this is the regular New Jersey that changes harshly. Unlike as in Gone With the World, where cannon _normal becomes abnormal_, in this AU, House and Wilson are born into _a non-cannon AU_, and then _it_ changes. Hmmm, not sure that makes sense.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A knock at the door.

Wilson called down the stairs to his house-maid, "Julia! Did you hear the door?"

"Yes, senator, the back door - I've got it."

"Thanks." He called again, struggling with his morning tie. Greg was, as often, sleeping in a bit, and Wilson knew he would have to wake him soon and run them both out the door to the car if he was to make his morning seat. All of this, of course, after cook and maid were both busy in another part of the house. His rules. After eight in the morning, everyone was to leave him be, and that meant to amscray to other duties. Cook would be sitting down in the summer-room to a large very thick, black coffee (which was his preference), and menu planning, and the maid would begin her dusting and what-not in the east wing, far from the garage entrance off the kitchen. Far enough away, both of them, so he could make his discreet exit with Greg the sleepy driver. Thankfully, the gardeners would not be up and at it until after he left for the day. Reena and what-iz-face hardly ever came to the big house, spending their non-gardening hours in their respective modest cabins.

Wilson was sure one or more of the servants suspected he was harbouring a lover; though he hoped neither yet guessed what caste that lover belonged to.

Barely on time for the opening remarks, Wilson settled himself into his seat, but the rest of the day proved to be uneventful at the Senate House. On their way to a discreet dinner in an out-of-the-way greasy spoon, Wilson's cell phone rang for his attention.

"Wilson."

"James." It was Reggie Juan.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Got a real load in today at the shelter, James. The local street cleaners rounded up a bunch of runners and really worked them over."

James understood the colloquialism. The good guys took their hurting sticks and beat the snot out of the workers who had run away from such like abuse or mistreatment.

"And we're desperate for another hand, if you're willing."

It was the last thing he wanted to do on a Monday that was turning out, until now, not all bad. A nice evening of Greg-sex was behind him, no Monroe to speak of so far... "How bad are they?" Wilson hoped that maybe if he wished real hard, Reggie would come back with "Not so bad after all, James, we'll handle it ol' boy - don't worry."

"R_eal_ bad. There's a woman I'm pretty sure won't make it.

Luck was ignoring him. "As bad as that?" Of course, women got beat up, too, in some cases; if they ran, or fought back, or pulled hair and spit. Street Cleaner teams didn't appreciate that very much. "What happened to her?"

"It's easier of you come see for yourself. I'm on my knees, you know?"

James tried not to think of his friend in that position, but yes, he understood, unfortunately. "I'm on my way." He called his publicist and instructed him to cancel his afternoon appointments, whatever they were.

Immediately there was a second call. "Yes?" He was in a hurry.

"Sir? It's Reena."

"Yes? What is it?" Irritated now, he could not keep the sound of it from his voice.

"Well, sir, see, the head gardener and I, we were talking today –"

"- is this going to take long? I'm very busy right now."

"No, sir, I guess it can wait."

Wilson gladly hung up, knocked on the car partition window and explained to Greg where they were going.

XXXXX

Greg put the long automobile in Park, and looked out the passenger-side window at the decrepit building. "This place looks sorta' familiar." He said.

Wilson climbed out. "Stay here. I'm sorry about this. I'll try not to be too long. Watch the broadcasts or something. There's candy, I think, in the glove box. Reena used to keep some there." He used to buy it for her for just such events: long, boring waits in the car for her employer to return.

"You're really going to leave me in the_ car_? I'm better than any 5 doctors in there."

Wilson closed the door with finality. "You're kidding, right? If they even suspect who you are, or why you're with me, we can kiss our cozy corner of life goodbye."

Wilson found his hands full with a poor woman who had been beaten about the head and face. She must have given the cleaners a real hard time to have been rewarded this badly.

"I think you're right. Her skull is fractured." No x-ray machines either. A roof, some bandages, a bottle or two of alcohol. What kind of a hospital would dare disguise itself as this? Wilson then chastised himself. He had meant, over and over, to bring in more supplies for Reggie, but his new, secret lover in his new secret double life had occupied almost all his thoughts of late and he had, over and over, forgotten to.

This woman was perhaps sixty. Not ancient but passed her prime. Maybe a recalcitrant lady who, not too surprisingly, had decided to finally rebel against her all-but-in-name-only life of slavery. "What can we do for her?" He asked Reggie, hoping his partner had an idea. "What about the other shelter, the one with the cutter?"

"He quit. Moved to California."

Perfect. Wilson cleaned the wound as best he could and bandaged up her head. Her own will to live, if she had any left, would have to do the rest.

Greg twiddled his thumbs, drew shapes in the plush floor carpeting, ate some dated, hard candy that tasted like raspberries, and watched a program featuring the exciting world of crop growing. New and improved methods of it were extolled. Genetically engineered grasses designed to grow faster with pest resistance built right in. Modified to boast a shelf-life of about a thousand years. Stuff that almost nothing could kill. Monster wheat.

Other than films of flowing grain fields and the ever present and obnoxious government-regulated channels where one could watch the politicians gather to debate the future of all poor saps kept well beneath them, there was nothing on. House switched it off. No good news anyway. Where was Santa when you needed him?

Greg sat on his curiosity until the twins were itching like fire-ants. "Fuck this." He said and opened the door. Marching through the alley-way door, his cane clip-clopping along in time, he stepped up to the nearest gurney that had a person lying on it. "What's the matter with you?"

"Stomach hurts real bad."

"_Really_ bad." Greg corrected him. Hooking his cane over one arm, he pressed the flat tips of his ten fingers against the fellows' upper abdomen. "Here?"

The man shook his head, whispering. "Lower."

Greg pressed his finger tips against the lower right quadrant of the patient's abdomen, just above his groin. "Here?" He kept the pressure on.

The fellow appeared relieved. "Yeah, but it feels better when you do that."

Greg let his fingers relax and the man cried out. "Jesus,_ that's_ it. Hurts like hell."

"Appendicitis. You need an operation."

The patient looked up at him hopefully, "You?"

Greg shook his head. "Sorry - my first day."

"Then who?"

"Good question. Wish I knew. They won't let me touch the scalpels until I become a real person. Sucks, huh?" Greg moved on.

Reggie was leaning over, listening to the heart of an older man when he heard voices down the hallway. Wilson was in the other room with a patient, so it couldn't be him making all that racket. He excused himself from the red-speckle cheeked old man and walked into the hallway. A stranger stood there, at the other end, leaning on a cane and addressing a patient seated on the floor. He was one of dozens patients waiting to be examined.

Reggie approached, over-hearing cane-man say: "So, other than you could use a good bath, what else is wrong with you? If you're not sick, you don't need to be here."

Reggie frowned. Who the hell was this? He answered for the patient "Because they have nowhere else to go."

When cane-man turned, Reggie paused, trying to place the vaguely familiar face, then - "Who - _you_?" The patient he had assigned to James. Bad Leg Guy. James never had gotten back to him on what had happened to the man. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?_ And_ talking to my patients?"

Wilson overheard raised voices and dropped what he was doing. When he saw where and why-for the voices, his heart sank to his knees. "Greg!" He rushed up to him. "I told you to stay in the car."

"Greg?" Reggie repeated. "You two know each other?"

Wilson glanced at Reggie, "He's my driver." Hoping that was enough of an explanation to stave off other, more incriminating ones.

"Then why is he in here playing doctor?" Reggie demanded.

Wilson recognised that voice. Reggie was a great guy, the nicest guy you'd want to meet, but when it came to the safety of his patients, nothing else came first.

Greg answered for himself. "I'm a doctor. So I'm here, doctoring."

Wilson cringed. S_on-of-a- _He glared at Greg, and then looked at Reggie, pleading for calm. "He's kidding."

Greg shook his head. "No, I'm not. By the way," He swung his cane in the direction of the gurney on which lay the painful abdomen patient. "You've got a guy over there who's appendix is about to explode."

Reggie turned his shock and anger on Wilson. "James, are you nuts?" Pointing to Greg, "He's a worker - a non-citizen, therefore a non-doctor. You could be brought up on charges. _I_ could be. The shelter could lose its_ license_."

Wilson raised sweating palms to his best friend and colleague. "Reggie, listen to me. I know this looks bad but believe me – he _is_ a doctor. It's not his fault he got cast aside."

"What happened to Reena? She's been your driver for years."

Wilson swallowed the lump that was beginning to grow in his throat, and tried to quell the cold fist of fear that was expanding in his chest. "It's complicated."

Greg said to Wilson. "Not that complicated, sweet buns." He turned to Reggie. "I let him have sex with me, so he lets me drive the car."

Reggie's eyes grew more rounded. "Y-you're lovers?" He stared at James like seeing him for the first time, and turned a full circle as though he could not believe the world was still turning properly on its axis. "_Senator _Wilson?"

James steepled his finger tips in prayer to whom-ever was still hanging around the planet. "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" He asked. "I _have_ thought a lot about this, you know. This wasn't a rash decision."

"I'll bet." Reggie said. "Come on, James, we've known each other a long time, and I_ know_ you. You fall in love when someone looks at you twice and smiles once."

It was the last resort from a friend to a friend. "Look, we've helped each other out before in...delicate situations. You owe me Reggie. I've kept a lab for you for years. What Greg and I have...what's between us I agree is risky, but you think the lab poses no risk to _me_? We both keep our mouths shut about both and everything will be fine."

Reggie stared at his old friend with fresh eyes. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say that sounded almost like a threat."

Wilson put his hands on his hips to steady himself. "Of course it isn't a threat, but this is important to me." He decided not to voice how important; that he was in love with Greg House to the depth that he had no idea how he was going to manage that, his career, and keeping them both separate and safe. Greg himself seemed bent on risking all for diagnostic fun.

Reggie looked nervous, like a man knowing he was stepping into the dark side without a flashlight. "Fine. I'll keep my mouth shut. But get him out of here."

Wilson looked at Greg, then at Reggie. "When do your nurses arrive?"

You mean my one nurse? Seven o'clock."

James bit his lip. "Let House stay and do what he was trained to do." He said to Greg "You willing to do some grunt work?"

When Greg nodded, James looked back at Reggie with more confidence. "When the nurse is here, call Greg Doctor, just like any other. She'll have no reason to question it."

"He's not a real doctor." Reggie insisted.

Greg defended himself. "My title may be illegal but it is still deserved - got the stethoscope to prove it."

"He can do the work," James said, "besides, if he goes, so do I."

Reggie knew when he was beaten. He also knew when not to look a gift horse in the mouth, particularly when there so many sick needing help. "You put me in a tough spot, James." Reggie looked Greg once over, up and down, "but if you say he's a doctor..." Reggie spoke directly to Greg. "You don't_ look_ much like a doctor. Try to fake it."

Greg frowned. "Back at ya'. _You_ don't look that smart."

Wilson had Greg stop by a Liquor Control Dispensary, and he bought a large bottle of semi-fine wine. Tonight was a celebration, as far as Wilson was concerned.

"A toast." Wilson raised his glass.

Greg followed but his manner was not joyful.

"Come on, Greg, you should be celebrating. You're working as a doctor again."

"Only for one night, and you're drunk."

Wilson did feel the buzz of alcohol-induced relaxation. He knew he had a leering, slightly stupid expression n his face. He didn't care. "Don't spoil the mood."

"Which mood is that?"

Wilson was feeling good. He was, in fact, feeling downright happy. He waved his tumbler around in the air a little. "Here we are, in a nice, quiet restaraufnt, having a drink, a good meal, sharing each other's company. It's a damn fine night out with a full moon. I'll settle for that."

"Which begs the question – Why did you bring me to this restaraunt?"

Wilson wondered if Greg was having hearing difficulties. "I just said, to-"

"-No. To _this_ restaurant. This is a fancy restaurant. You usually insist on dark, unpopular, holes-in-the-wall where we're anonymous. Here, people might recognise you, there might be questions."

Wilson set his glass on the table. He knew why, he just hadn't come up with the right words, or the courage, to say them. "Because I wanted this night to be special. I wanted it to mean something to both of us."

"You wanted to get my attention."

Wilson nodded. Greg was nothing if not astute.

"Well, you have it. What's on your mind?"

The words should be eloquent, memorable - wonderful. But he came up wanting. "I love you." He said finally. "I'm in love with you, and I wanted you to know that."

Greg nodded, not surprised, not overjoyed or blushing, but simply yes. Yes, he knew. Like it was old news.

Wilson waited until the proper moment for Greg to have answered back passed. Then the next moment, when it arrived, proved awkward. The next after that, Wilson began to sweat. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Greg nodded once more, pushing aside his glass of wine. He wiped the residue off his lips with a cloth napkin, leaned across the table and looked Wilson right in the eye. Calculating, chillingly honest blues drove straight into inebriated, love-chucked-full browns. "You think because you've had good sex and a few laughs that you're in love. Lots of people make that mistake. But I know you better by a long shot than you know me, Wilson."

House changed his emotion-free opening words to ones slightly softer, a little kinder, but still brutally honest. "You're a man who has grown used to having the fine things in life, so you believe in the _rationality_ of Rational Principle if not its methods of implementation and enforcement. You're also a man of conscience, so you feel _guilty_ that you live in luxury. Consequently you'd like to in theory save the lesser mortals of the world, but being also selfishly pragmatic, you'll settle for saving me – as long as you get something from it; my body, my undying gratitude; my companionship.

"Thing is, I'm not about to give you any of those things. I _like_ you, Wilson, but I don't love you. You saved my leg - thank-you - but you haven't saved me. I don't require it from you or anyone. I don't require your permission to stay or go, to be a doctor or not. I am a doctor, and I am free to come and go. And that's something you should know – eventually I _will_ go."

Wilson swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. How could Greg not be happier now? He managed not to stutter. "But..._why_?"

"Because as long as I stay here, under your downy wing, I'm not free. It's a cliché but it has the charm of also being true. I'm a non-person here, and I won't be that anymore. It's all your fault, Wilson. You gave me the taste of freedom again and I guess what? I like it."

XXX

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

**Rational Principle**

Part XI

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. ** _**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

KEEP in mind this is the regular New Jersey that changes harshly. Unlike as in Gone With the World, where cannon _normal becomes abnormal_, in this AU, House and Wilson are born into _a non-cannon AU_, and then _it_ changes. Hmmm, not sure that makes sense.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was a busy day at the Practise. He and Reggie were kept running most of the morning attending to old patients and the occasional new one. Wilson's thoughts returned repeatedly to Greg's announcement that he would soon be leaving. They had argued about it the night before.

"You're a cripple, how far do you think you're going to get without a car?"

"So you won't even give me a lift to the bus station?" Greg said as he thrust his few clothes into a leather soft-sided bag. "What was that you said about loving me? Did I have wax in my ears?"

"There are no bus stations - not for workers."

"Don't worry about me. I'll figure it out."

Wilson tried, and almost succeeded, in keeping the plea from his voice, "How?"

"I'll make it up as I go."

The phone interrupted those and other more anxious thoughts. Like not only never seeing Greg again, but Greg maybe going out here and being caught, maybe killed. He was so_ stubborn_. "Yes? This is Doctor Wilson."

"Has she had her CT yet?" It was Greg, but there was no point in scolding him about calling at the office, the infuriating man would not listen anyway. He never did listen to anything, or anyone.

"Who?"

"Osuna, you idiot."

"I don't know. Can we talk about last night?"

"No. So phone her, tell her she needs a CT, and tell that idiot doctor of hers to start her on corticosteroids."

"Why?"

"I think she hasSjogren's syndrome."

"Based on what – one urine test?"

"No, based on one urine test, her symptoms of dryness and joint pain, and her family history of diabetes on her mother's side. The earlier she gets treatment, the less likely she gets permanent kidney or liver damage."

"I'm just supposed to call her up?"

"I will if you want."

"Don't you dare!" Wilson sighed. Two days ago things had been so nice; calm and contentment had been his. He'd felt happy for the first time in years. Now everything was all screwed up again. "I can't tell her doctor what to do."

"Why not?"

"Because..." But Osuna had insisted he call again, and she seemed to respect him even more as a doctor than as a politician. What harm could it do? "I'll call her up _if_ you'll reconsider and agree to talk about this."

"You're a cheeky bastard."

"Only when I need to be."

"Hah. Fine, we'll talk, but just call her up."

"We talk tonight _and_ you don't leave until you hear me out and have considered my proposition."

"We talk tonight if you call her up _and_ tell her doctor he's a moron, or let me tell him."

The little joke alleviated somewhat the black depression that had settled over him. "Deal."

"And you have to tell me what she says, and what the moron says. I need my drama fix."

Greg really was like a child sometimes. The kind you didn't want, an insufferable, recalcitrant brat. "Fine."

By the time he got home, Greg was already in bed. Wilson found a note by the coffee machine. _"Willie: gone to bed. Don't even __**think**__ about trying to taking advantage of me tonight. Well, okay, you can think about it all you want, you just can't do it. We'll talk in the morning. Did you call her?"_

He had called Osuna right after his phone conversation with Greg.

"Missus President –"

"- now, James, you promised me you'd remember to call me Katsu."

"Er – yes, my apologies, Katsu. I'm very concerned about the results of the urine test. I really think you need a CT scan. Could you make the request to your doctor himself? Is he a radiology man? I could call in someone else I know, if –"

"-do you really think this is necessary, James? I'm feeling much better."

"It would ease my mind greatly. I really think it is necessary, yes, as soon as possible - as a personal favour to me." Wilson hoped that was respectful, and sucky-up enough for her doctor's ears should she relay is concerns, to get Osuna the needed CT scan. Osuna assured him she would speak to her own doctor no later than the next day. She also promised to call him back as soon as she had been informed of the results.

Wilson thanked her more than once, expressing how much it meant to him that she was getting the very best of care, but he went to bed dreaming of rotting livers and drinking tea with the president. His tea turned cold in his cup. While Osuna smiled at him, the tea was suddenly transformed into sludge. The room filled with the stink of sewer and rot. When he looked up, Osuna had turned into House who was bleeding from his mouth and knocking his cane against the floor in a steady rhythmic beat. Louder and louder and louder...

An insistent knocking at the front door awoke Wilson from a troubled sleep. Greg was still snoring in his own room down the hall; the pounding had not roused him. As he sleepily gathered his robe around himself, Wilson wondered what sort of reasons or pleadings on his own part might alter Greg's mind about leaving.

Where he was going to go, how he was to get there and who was going to foot the bill for the trip might also become a topic for discussion.

_It's impossible, _his good sense expounded_. What are you going to do? – hunt walrus?_

_But I love him. _His heart whispered._ Go with him. Leave here tonight. You've got money; you can go anywhere you want._

_Not true, _Good Sense countered_, there is no Anywhere anymore. There is only the awful, awful northern territory that belongs to no one. _

_No one wants it, _Heart whispered_, like they don't want the workers. Like they don't want Greg._

Good sense, for now, held the winning hand. North was hedged with difficulties, most of which having to do with staying alive and well fed once there. Wilson knew himself that he was no outdoorsman, and he had a sneaking suspicion that, for all his bravado, Greg house wasn't either. Metaphorically throwing in the towel, Wilson had retired to sleep on it hours ago; "it' being the enormous problem of Greg House's imminent departure – the man he was in love with. Wilson had slept badly.

The impatient rapping on the front door followed by the ringing of the bell, stirred Wilson's thoughts once more away from these troublesome problems. His house servants – he had accumulated several since his lover had moved in (there was simply not enough time to attend to things on his own anymore) – had all gone home for the night, and Wilson, slipping on a white robe, padded down the stairs to see for himself who would have the gumption to call at such an ungodly hour.

The man he opened to presented his card, his badge, and spoke to him with some volume "Senator James E. Wilson?"

"Yes?" Wilson frowned. Had there been a robbery in the area? At two AM, not surprisingly, nothing else more creative came to mind. "What's going on, officer?"

The man, who introduced himself as Inspector Darlings, stepped into the foyer. "Are there any other people in the house, Senator? Are you alone?"

Now many things came to his mind, all of them bad. "Well, no. I mean, there's no one here but me. What's wrong? Has there been a robbery in the neighbourhood?" Unlikely in such a highly patrolled, doors-and-gates-locked neighbourhood.

"No sir." Darlings replied. "Are you _certain_ there are no other persons in your household, senator?"

"Of course I'm sure." He said, hoping his tone masked his near-shaking voice. He also prayed that he appeared the correct amount of indignant.

Wilson had not noticed the second man with Darlings, who now stepped up near the door so he could be seen in the light of the entranceway. The reflections of all three men shone in the polished oak-wood floor - a veritable troupe of officialdom.

Darlings nodded his head to the second man, who stepped into the home proper now and began wandering through the halls and lower floor rooms.

"Hey, wait a second." Wilson said to the nameless second man. "What do you think you're doing?"

Darlings spoke to Wilson. "I have a warrant to search the premises, Senator. It would be in your best interest at this point to cooperate."

"A warrant?" Wilson snatched the thing from the officer's hand and pursued its contents. It appeared authentic. "On whose authority? Who sent you?"

"The local Precinct, sir - Division of RP Social Protocol. Darlings tucked his badge away once more, and took the paper back from Wilson's hand. "We have received information that you're harbouring a runaway."

"That's ridiculous." Had Reggie decided he could not, after all, go along with Wilson in his clandestine relationship with an illegal? Is that why all of this was happening? Did Reggie have a change of heart? Had House been recognised at the restaurant as an undesirable? That had been a rather foolish gesture on his part; to bring his illegal lover to a popular hang-out of the local young, up-and-coming political elitist. But Wilson himself had recognised no one.

Suddenly he heard two sets of feet descending the stairs, one clad in shoes, the other in the softer sound of socked feet. Darlings' sidekick had Greg in the plastic zip-type hand-cuffs, his hands bound in front of him. Greg was wearing only pyjama bottoms (the ones Wilson had loaned him), a thin tee-shirt and nothing else.

"Got him, boss." The sidekick said to Darlings, who then turned to look at Wilson with great disappointment in his eyes. "So, senator, _not_ certain then?"

All Wilson could think to say was "This is a mistake."

Darlings responded with "That's what we're going to find out, senator. Place your hands in front of you please."

Wilson saw no other recourse but to do as he was told, though a sudden urge to thoroughly bribe the officer flashed through his mind. He wisely dismissed it as fool hardly, wishing to avoid further charges (in case this man and his partner supported consciences too refined to brook questionable policing).

Before he knew it, his hands were bound and he was being escorted to a black, unmarked van by the officers. Doors were slammed and locked, an engine rumbled to life, and they were swept away into the cool night.

The lights of the police station hurt his eyes when they came in from the darkness. Wilson was glad to have his own cuffs removed, but he did not fail to notice that no one paused to offer Greg the same comfort. Greg was taken through an opaque door, no doubt to a more secure interrogation room. Wilson hadn't even had the opportunity to offer him a word of hope.

Wilson accepted the chair offered him, the hot beverage fixed the way he liked it, the quick removal of his cuffs, and the congenial smile Darlings now sent his way as he switched on his computer.

"Am I supposed to make a statement?" Wilson asked not without a hint of sarcasm.

Darlings shook his head with grave lips. It was a "_perish the thought"_ sort of gesture. "Not at all, senator. We're simply trying to get the lay of the land. I'm sure you have good reason for having," Darling checked the information paper in front of him, "Greg House in your residence." He cleared his throat and lit a cigarette, then offered one to Wilson who shook his head. Once upon a time, no one could smoke anywhere but their own living room. Now-a-days, cigarettes were the least of anyone's worry. Expensive things, too, since tobacco was so rare that it was too expensive for most people to purchase. Maybe the police had a smoke allowance or something, though Wilson could recall no such legislation.

Darlings puffed appreciatively. "Now, um, how did this runner come to be staying with you?"

Was he dreaming? Darling was suddenly being nice. "He is a patient."

"You're a doctor, too?" Darlings' eyebrows climbed his forehead, impressed. "So he was under your care?"

"Yes."

"Then why wasn't he recovering in a worker-approved shelter?"

It certainly appeared that Darling was trying to be reasonable here. "They had no room, and he has a grave injury to his leg."

Darling nodded then frowned. "I'm not a doctor of course but when Williams – that's my assistant – brought him down, he certainly seemed able to walk well enough."

"The injury is not fully healed, and I doubt Williams was paying more attention to the condition of my patient than doing his job. No offense."

"I see." Darlings leaned forward in a manner of privacy, his body closer to Wilson, his hands folded in front of him, so that only his voice passed between them and not to the few others in the large office, going about their nightly duties of upholding the paperwork of the law. "Senator, you are not the first person of note to have fallen into, shall we say, and unsavoury relationship with a worker. We're here to...assure our political leaders that we _understand_." Darling underlined the word heavily. "We know. We really do." He shrugged "It _happens_." He spread his hands in consolation. "Doctor meets and heals a rather hot looking man, or woman, who happens to be a worker, a certain kind of friendship develops, then maybe a certain kind of something more. Things can get..._sticky_, here and there. Pretty soon, it's sticky all over, if you know what I mean. We're all just human, after all."

Darlings was trying to let Wilson off the hook, in the way that only a high ranking officer of the law might be able to do so for a member of the politically elite, by pretending it was either all a mistake or that it was almost an accidental romance – not wholly intentional – not his fault! Wilson appreciated the gesture, however crude its delivery, but the insulted heart of him also wanted to pound the smarmy ass right in the nose.

Accidental? _Greg?_ That exciting, sharp as nails, vivacious man? Jesus, he – _anyone_ - would have to have been blind, deaf and stupid to have missed the appeal that Greg carried around with him. He simply reeked of sexuality and smarts. He was intelligent, refreshing and, above all, honest to a fault. He knew exactly how the land of_ his_ life lay, and he wanted out. As much as Wilson hated to agree, Greg was right.

"Senator?" Darling was waiting for Wilson's reply.

Wilson stared back at Darlings. So easy to get out of this. So easy. Just say yes. Say it was stupid of me, Officer Darlings, to have allowed this patient a stay in my home. Please take him to the nearest shelter or adoption agency. I'm so sorry to have caused you this inconvenience. I'll watch my better judgement in the future I can assure you. Good Sense agreed.

Fuck inconvenience. Fuck good sense. Fuck Darlings, too. "I love Greg House. If you are going to detain him, then you're going to have to detain me, too. Do whatever you have to, officer, I'm not leaving."

Wilson expected next to once more be handcuffed and hauled off to the nearest cell to await a hearing (or an arraignment and bail if he was allowed bail, and _then_ to await trial).

No event transpired except for Darling's nod of understanding. It was quite nauseating, really. "I admire your conviction, Senator, Would you excuse me a moment?"

Wilson nodded dumbly, all ideas as to his immediate fate had been whisked away by the succinct weirdness of the moment. Was he under arrest or not? Was he to be questioned or not? And where was Greg? Was he also under arrest? More likely he was.

Darlings returned and placed a second cup of coffee before him, placing a thick black leather zipped-up file on his desk. "We have contacted a friend of yours, and he will be by shortly to take you home. Best to put this unpleasant night behind you and resume your duties to the State, he says."

This was beyond obtuse. "_What_ friend?" Wilson demanded.

"Senator Monroe. He is on your list of emergency contacts."

Wilson then recognised the black zipped-up folder as his personal one. His work and weekly agenda; numbers, meetings, appointments – everything was contained in it. "You called_ Monroe_?" His mother had topped the list, then Reggie, then Reggie's assistant, then his own cousin, then a few personal friends. Monroe was way down the list of contacts, and by no means was he an emergency contact. "That's crazy. He's no friend of mine."

"Well, he's on his way."

"I refuse to leave. Where's Greg? I want to see him."

Darling coughed once; an iron-fisted bark, making his answer plain. He said it anyway, to make it plainer. "Impossible I'm afraid. He's to be processed and sent to the nearest Agency."

"Processed? What the hell does processed mean?"

"Cleaned up. Made presentable."

Greg was already presentable. Naked and sick to the gills, he would still be more presentable than most of the men within sight, metaphorically and in every other way. "I demand to see him."

Darlings looked back at his charge with a certain weariness of soul. "Look, senator, you're not the first guy we've had in here who thinks he's in love with a worker, and I feel for you. I really do, but the law is the law. Greg House is a worker and a runaway. His fate was decided the minute he left his last assignment."

"You make it sound like he was given a_ choice_. He's been through hell. And he's a cripple. How long do you think he's going to last at his next so-called assignment?"

"It's not up to me to make that determination."

At that moment, a policeman escorted the portly Monroe to Wilson's side. "So, James," he began with distinct superiority. "You've gotten yourself into a bit of quicksand here." Monroe looked with gratitude to Darlings. "Thank you, officer, for calling me. I shall not forget it."

Darling nodded and the policeman took Wilson by the arm, walking him to the station door between himself and Monroe. Just outside they were left alone, and Wilson shook off Monroe's helping hand. "Wait a second. I'm not going anywhere. They're detaining Greg against his will."

"And against yours?" Monroe asked. "I'm surprised at you, James. Your father would be very disappointed. This little incident has cost me a lot of money."

"My father's been dead seven years, his opinion hardly matters now." What would Monroe demand in return, he wondered? Monroe didn't drop coin out of the goodness of his heart. Not even for his deceased best friend's son. And now Monroe knew he was gay. What repercussions was that going to bring from the studiously middle-ground-politics Monroe?

Monroe sighed, glancing back at the double doors of the local precinct. "You really want to go back in there and ask them to place you under arrest? How far will that get you in securing the release of your, ahem,_ friend_, do you think?"

The studious prick had a point.

"Are you really prepared to sacrifice your career over a worker, tonight? Out here in the cold without giving it a second's thought?"

Wilson felt the crushing weight of defeat. Monroe, for all his bald-faced bigotry, was for once correct. If he allowed himself to be arrested, charged, right here, right now, Greg was done for, too. But if he kept his cool, he might be able to figure a way out of this for both of them. "No. But I'm still going to say goodbye to him. If I'm a citizen, I intend to exercise that right for a minute or two more."

Monroe shrugged. "Very well." he sighed with distinct disappointment. "I'll be in the car."

Wilson quickly located Darlings once more who, it appeared, was busy relating his recent arrest of a gay senator and his worker lover to the younger generation of police persons. When Darlings spotted Wilson, he left the crowed of chuckling admirers and walked over to him.

Without any extra formality, "I want to at least say goodbye to Greg. You'll allow me that, won't you?"

Darlings scratched his chin, one in need of a shave. "We can't allow you to be alone with him, but I suppose a goodbye won't hurt anything."

Wilson was escorted to a holding cell; a locked room where they had Greg seated with his hands cuffed to a ring set into a hard, steel table. His lip was bleeding. Wilson spun on Darlings in a fury. "What the hell kind of law enforcement are you?" He swung an angry arm at his lover's injury. "What the hell is this?"

Greg spoke for the officers present. "I think it's my "re-education"."

Darlings ignored Greg as though he weren't even sitting four feet from them. "Sometimes the men can be over-enthusiastic." He said blandly. "It won't happen again." Darlings left them alone and, besides a single police guard, they were.

Wilson walked over to Greg, and leaned down to speak.

"No touching, "gentlemen"." The policeman warned them.

Wilson ignored him, speaking as sotto voce as he could so to not be overheard. "I'm sorry. I'll get you out somehow. Trust me."

Greg took a deep breath. "I'm sure you'll try."

Wilson stared into Greg's doubtful eyes. Not caring what the protocols were, Wilson leaned over and kissed him once on the mouth.

"Hey. I said no touching." The guard warned again.

Wilson straightened up, wiping a bit of Greg's blood from his own lip. "Don't worry."

"You always say that." Greg pointed out.

"We'll be fine." Wilson said. "We'll be fine."

Wilson returned to the hated Monroe and his black limousine, and the car took him away.

XXX


	12. Chapter 12

**Rational Principle**

Part XII

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: **WARNING!** **AU. Mentions of SLAVERY. ** _**This story will eventually be H/W, also.**_ Senator/Doctor James Wilson owns House - who is an unfortunate member of the Worker Caste. Violence, politic-speak, adult situations, language, and maybe a few other things I'm not sure about yet.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a Plot Bunny prompt by LUMI. I bow humbly before you! Thank you for the excellent idea. I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

KEEP in mind this is the regular New Jersey that changes harshly. Unlike as in Gone With the World, where cannon _normal becomes abnormal_, in this AU, House and Wilson are born into _a non-cannon AU_, and then _it_ changes. Hmmm, not sure that makes sense.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"I need to see President Osuna."

"The president is resting."

Wilson tried desperately not to give way to frustration; not in his tone, manner or on his face. It was exceedingly difficult. Though Kaul, the president's political and personal assistant had a point. It was two in the morning. Of course she was resting. Also she had just gotten out of the hospital. Was she well? Had she been cured? As far as Greg had been able to determine with his home-grown laboratory, nothing conclusive had been garnered from her blood and urine samples.

"You don't understand. This is very important."

"It always is. The president is resting. If you want to make an appointment, call during office hours." The usually polite voice at the other end of the line ended their short conversation with an abrupt _click_.

Wilson rummage around on his office desk finding mostly neglected correspondence from distant relatives all wishing they could come visit. In other words, might he get them a job within government and ease their troublesome lives? He found his keys to his personal car, rarely used, and drove himself across four hours of country.

The sky was just turning candy-pink when he pulled up in front of what had become the new White House – no longer white but a glass and steel fortress situated behind barbed wire fencing and patrolled twenty-four-seven with guards with big guns and mean looking dogs.

The fellow at the gate, he also had a gun and a dog, turned him away with a scowl. "No one see's the President without an appointment, not even a Senator."

Wilson closed his eyes and heaved an exhausted sigh. "Could you please just call her for me? Please just that? She's not expecting me but she will see me – I promise you I'm telling the truth. Her life could be at stake."

The fellow did not appear convinced.

Wilson tried one last argument. He dug in his wallet and pulled out every legal tender he was carrying. It amounted to five thousand worth of Plastic Greenbacks which he thrust out to the man. "Twice the amount you'll make this month for _one_ phone call."

The guard frowned, thrust the money into his pants pocket and radioed inside. The President invited him up.

XXXXXXX

She looked frailer but well enough to order the guard outside her door to get a coffee from down the hall. She shoed away his concerns, closed the thick door and then turned to Wilson with a frown. "What could be so important that you'd drive all night to see me, Senator?"

"I have a huge problem." He said, not knowing how else to approach it other than outright blunt honesty. "But if you'll allow a specialist to have a look at you, he may find a cure or a treatment-"

"-but my doctor assures me there is nothing to worry about. I'm getting better."

"He's wrong and this specialist can prove it and recommend treatment – if you'll let him. And then, and then, I will need to ask you a favour."

She stared back at him, her eyes searching for untruths, her mind turning over his words most carefully. This President did not make brash decisions. "A favour _exchange_." She said astutely. Katsu Osuna was a woman who took stock of each step through her world and during her two terms in office, personal favours were a rare commodity she handed out with extreme discretion.

Wilson added. "You must see that I would not have come here if you were not my _very_ last hope."

Osuna wrapped her robe around her narrow shoulders and lifted her phone while Wilson broke out in a sweat.

"Angelo." She said. "Please have the kitchen send up some tea and refreshments. My visitor shall be staying for a while." She pressed a second series of numbers. "Mister Kaul? I am sorry to disturb you at this hour but I need you to arrange something for me." She covered the phone with her palm and asked her visitor "Where did you say this doctor was office-ed?"

"He's at..." Wilson swallowed "the Princeton Remand Center - New Jersey." Stuttering a little "O-or, if he's not there, at the nearest Worker Agency."

Osuna, shrewd to her bone marrow, nodded thoughtfully. "Have Jenny come to my quarters. I have a letter for her to draft. And please have a car ready to send out with two members of my official body guard. They will be going to The Remand Center in Princeton New Jersey shortly to pick up a doctor named..." She raised her eyebrows to Wilson.

"Uh, _prisoner_ Gregory House."

Osuna showed no distinct reaction other than a slight lifting of her chin. "A man named Gregory House. He's a doctor and a prisoner. Yes, I'm serious." She said sharply. "And make certain to call me" Osuna continued "if he is not there. I'll have another location for you in that event. Make certain my guards are properly armed and carry the draft I send down. Is that all clear Mister Kaul? Thank you."

Wilson let himself relax for the first time in over a day. His back ached and he felt slightly light headed at the rush of recent events.

"Thank you Misses President."

"Senator" Osuna said. "I fear you may have reason to not be so thankful once all this – whatever this is – plays out. If there is one thing I have learned in these unfortunate times, is that everything has its price. _Everything_ costs. Who _is_ this Gregory House?"

In for a pound of trouble, in for a tonnage. "The man I'm in love with."

Osuna's lip twitched. "I see. A worker, currently a prisoner?"

"Yes."

"You've gotten yourself into a bit of trouble over this fellow, or you would not have come to see me at such an hour using my health as an excuse." She stated.

"Not as an excuse – not entirely. I think he can help you. He believes your doctor is wrong and I agree."

"He was a doctor...before...?"

"Yes. And from what I know of him, a very good one. I'm positive he can help you."

"And yet I feel fine."

"If Doctor House is correct, you soon won't. You'll worsen."

"So he treats me and then what?" She asked simply.

Wilson's eyes darted around a bit. "I-I'm not sure..."

"He cures me or treats me and then what about you, and him, and both of your - er - _situations_? If he's as prisoner on his way back to an Agency that means he was a runner and was caught. Caught at your residence?"

Wilson nodded mutely, suddenly feeling miserable again. She was right. House helps her and then what? "That is correct, Ma-am, yes."

"I am an old fashioned woman, James, and I can recognise love-sickness when I see it. But being a _senator_ in love in this day and age – one who is in love with a worker being my meaning - presents for us a problem. What am I to do with you now?"

Wilson had no wish to cause her difficulties. "We'll leave immediately of course, misses President."

"James I have asked you repeatedly to call me Katsu."

"Y-yes, Katsu, excuse me. I don't want to make trouble for you. I simply had nowhere else to go."

"I understand that, James, and I'm not asking you to run off into the night like a pair of wolves. We need to address your situation."

Osuna walked to an ornate writing desk and drew some paper and a pen from a drawer. She returned to the tea table and wrote out a sort missive as they waited for her servant to bring up the food and drink.

Tea and sandwiches arrived and Osuna handed the folder letter to the girl, giving her careful instructions as to whom to give it. Then, like a servant girl herself, the President poured out the drinks for them both. Wilson nibbled spiritlessly on a sandwich of smoked salmon and red relish, though he couldn't grumble about the flavour. It was delicately spicy and delicious.

"Please excuse me, James." Osuna said as she took a moment to tip her head back and use an eyedropper. "It's so dry in here."

Once the servant girl had left, Wilson said "We would not need to run if it were legal for him to exist as a doctor - as a free man –a citizen, and not a virtual slave."

"True enough but what would you have me do? Seek to undermine a system that was put in place - and put in place only after countless years of debate and rioting - the only solution so far that has saved the majority of lives in this ongoing crisis of nature? Announce a declaration of equality and freedoms for all?" She reasoned. "Can you _imagine_ the effect? Even now Rational Principle is barely able to maintain the populations and the food production as they are. In many countries, and I speak of those who did not embrace the Principle, rationing and reproduction restriction laws are proving inadequate and people starve by the millions. We - _this_ country - are feeding its four hundred million citizens and workers. In _this_ country people are surviving while in others they drop like flies."

Wilson nodded. It was the sad and unfair truth. "Yes, I know. I know." He had no brilliant solutions to offer her. "But my conscience has taken...a beating lately over this and I'm having a hard time reconciling mere survival with the life of privilege those in the government enjoy, myself included. I was made elite by doing nothing but being born at the right time and into the right family. He was made a slave with no rights at all by the same standard, only in reverse."

"As was I, James, as was I. My father was a military man, and so here I am - a president. So you would trade your place for a life of hardship – why? So your conscience is clearer? So you can sleep better? Then who would step in to replace you, tell me that? Thomas? Munroe? One - a greedy political pundit who's only interest is gaining advantage for himself, or the other - a bigot of the worst order? The senate needs men and women of good will and conscience, James. Men like you. You are_ in_ this present turmoil because you are a righteous-hearted man who hurts at the misfortune of others."

"But..." Wilson did not know how to explain it to her. Yes he wanted to make good changes in the world but no, he could not think of his life now without Greg in it. As he valued his own position in the senate where he might be able to effect changes for the better, so he loved Greg House who would benefit from those changes, but the two were mutually exclusive. As the world lay, having both was not possible. "I wish things were different."

Osuna sighed. "If you wish to bring about this man's freedom so you may pursue a life with him, then you must give up yours. Your seat in the senate is of what I speak and then you must leave the State. You must leave the Union in fact. No where does the Law allow for a citizen and a worker to unite in life. As President of that Union I cannot make an exception, James, not even for you."

He nodded quickly. "I understand ma-am. Really, I do. I would not ask you to do anything against your conscience."

"It has _nothing_ to do with my conscience, James." She explained firmly. "Do you seriously believe that I would _not_ wish to see every member of this Union, citizen and worker, with the freedom to choose? Or have any bereft of the joy of family and children? It is_ loathsome_ to me."

"Then why can we not loosen some of the restrictions of the Principle? As written it is wrong in every moral way I can think of."

"Yes, it is." she agreed "So shall I release all workers into the street? Where would they go? And if they began to have children as they would naturally do, where would those children sleep? And how would they feed themselves?"

"But surely" Wilson said, his voice rising from days of worry and frustration "modifications could be introduced into the Principle? Exemptions for the elderly, or for the chronically sick? Or for those who have a needed skill to contribute?"

Osuna looked to her left where Old Glory hung from its pole, still and mute. "I hope one day for all to be free and equal under that dusty flag that sits in the corner over there, but when I took the oath for this office it was to uphold the system and the laws in place as they are, not to force reckless change that might destroy what we have thus far managed to salvage in this lopsided, imbalanced and, yes, unfair, society. When change comes, when it is possible to bring it forth, you can be sure, James that I _will _act but for now, for_ right_ now, it is simply not possible. If we abolished Rational Principle even more millions would starve. For the time being it is, I'm afraid, nature that makes the hardest rules. _Nature_, James, not we weakling humans."

Wilson nodded. Osuna hated the situation in her beloved country no less than he did, but she was unfortunately right. What _was _there that she could do? _Where _else was there to go for millions?

As for himself, there was only one other choice. He could take Greg north where life was harsh and unforgiving but it would at least be a free life. A life without chains but for the chains of the struggle to eat and survive, _those_ particular shackles would never fall from the human race for all eternity.

He had sufficient savings to make such a life a little easier but it would still be one apart from what he was used to. For one thing, he had no idea about life in the far northern reaches of the continent. Planet wide climate changes had brought about a catastrophic melt of the permafrost and ocean ice north of the sixty-ninth parallel. Millions of square miles of what had once been vast, rich tundra thriving with wild life and boreal forest was now a temperate swamp where little life, that had not swiftly adapted, could grow or survive. But he knew some people still lived there – those who could not stomach the principle as he now was also about to abandon.

For another, he would never see his parents again. "When do you think your man will be back with Greg?"

"Another few hours I should think." She answered. "Why don't you get some rest until then?" Osuna called for a maid to show him to a private guest bedroom.

Wilson undressed, showered and fell into the soft bed gratefully, aware that it might be his last night of luxury for a very long time.

XXXXXXXXXXX

When he next awoke, Greg was sitting on his bed, shaking him. "Hey."

Wilson sat up and swallowed him in an impulsive hug. "When did you arrive?"

"Just now. How in the hell did you swing a guest room at the White House, or at - I guess – the concrete and steel_ Gray_ House?"

"Well, I've met her before." He said as no satisfactory explanation. "Did you see her?"

"Yeah. Cool little lady."

"And?"

"And? I could hardly make a diagnosis with a single glance. She said tomorrow."

"Oh."

Greg sighed. His lip was swollen but at least it wasn't bleeding. "I've been given a room down the hall. There isn't even a lock on the door."

"I guess it helps to have friends in high places."

Greg looked back at him knowingly. "I guess it is."

Wilson grabbed one corner of the covers and threw them back. "Stay here."

Greg didn't need to be convinced and crawled in. Too tired for anything but sleep, he rolled over away from James and drifted off in seconds. Wilson draped one arm over his lover's chest and closed his eyes, sleeping soundly through until morning.

A knock on the door woke up both of them, but it was Wilson who answered it, making certain to open the door only a crack so whoever was on the other side could not see in.

It was a servant, this time a young man in a black suit holding a tray with a covered plate and a cup of black coffee. In a tiny bowl there was a selection of milk powder and sugar. He extended the tray and Wilson opened the door wide enough to take it.

"For your guest sir." He said, then "Your breakfast is being served in the main dining room in one half hour. Appropriate dress is required." He walked away.

Wilson got dressed in a hurry. He had been correct in assuming that Greg would not be welcome at the breakfast table. A president must keep up Principle-ed appearances after all and it would not do for anyone in her cabinet to be hazarding guesses as to the identity of her two surprise guests, or where they might have slept.

Wilson was not going to argue if it kept Greg safe for another day.

Breakfast was a quiet affair and Wilson enjoyed the lack of conversation. Osuna did not attend.

When he returned to his room, Greg was finishing up his own breakfast, happily chewing on a piece of toast smothered with blue-berry jam. "So where am I suppose to conduct this examinations?" He asked through a mouth full of crumbs.

"Ah, I don't actually know. I'll have to ask her."

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"_Stay_ in your room. I'll bring you a book or something."

Greg sighed. "And then what?"

Wilson removed his suit jacket. "Hm?"

"After I cure her – if she _can_ be cured – then what? You and me what? And where, when, how and all that jazz? I'm assuming we can't live here?"

"You assume correctly. I – I'm not sure. I'll have to figure something out. Katsu said we'd talk about it later."

"First name basis huh? You sure know how to charm the panties off people."

Wilson wasn't sure if that was a joke or innuendo. At Greg's sly, slightly lustful look, he decided it was a joke. "Um, none of that here. I'd like to avoid jail if at all possible."

"'Course. How about just an after-dinner squeeze then?"

"You're disgusting."

"That's why you love me."

It was one of the reasons. Wilson's phone rang from his jacket pocket. He looked at the number. "Shit." He said. It was Reggie. He opened it. "Hi Reggie."

He sounded testy. _"Are you coming in today or not?"_

He felt guilty about it. He had promised. "Uh, something came up and I can't. I'm not in New Jersey. I don't know when I'll be home." Or _if_.

"_Great."_ A heavy sigh. _"Well, Munroe's been asking about you. He said he picked your ass up at Princeton jail two days ago. Is that true – what's going on James?"_

"Uh, complicated story, believe me – and boring. How's the clinic?"

"_Stupid busy. We could use some help, as always, but I guess you're out for now. We'll make do."_

"You always do."

"_Hey, whatever happened to that patient? You know the one with the leg?"_

"Uh, he got better."

"_Oh. Well, good. That's one anyway."_

"Hey Reggie..." He would probably never see his friend again either. "Take care of yourself, okay."

"_Um, yeah, sure - always. See you in a few days I guess."_

"Okay. Goodbye Reg'."

Almost immediately the phone rang again, only this time it was the phone in the room. When he lifted the receiver a voice said simply "Madam President will see the doctor now, in her private suite." He then stood aside in the corridor and waited for his charges to make themselves ready.

Wilson dressed in his full suit and Greg, dressed in his prison garb, followed the stiff-backed fellow to an adjoining room where some clothes had been laid out on the bed. "One cannot attend to the president," He explained, "in _that_." He pointed with his nose at Greg's sweat-soiled, thread-bare outfit.

Greg took a moment to change while the fellow waited outside the closed door. Wilson watched in guilty appreciation as his friend stripped naked and then donned the fresh clothes. His right leg was moving rather stiffly and he had to sit on the bed to pull on the pants. "How's the leg."

"Hurts." He said simply.

That was over three months of hurt now, and that meant the nerve damage he had observed during the operation had been bad enough to cause chronic discomfort. It was unlikely to ever fully go away. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. You probably saved my life. Guess I should have thanked you."

James felt stupid that the simple gratitude would make him blush to his hair roots. To deny that Greg from the beginning had a powerful effect on him would be a lie. "No problem."

Osuna received them with her usual dignity, offering Greg a tiny, manicured hand in friendship. She had a good grip. "James tells me I'm still ill, Doctor House, and that you share that opinion. Perhaps you'll let me know?" She said kindly, sitting down in a straight chair, readying herself for his examination.

Greg nodded. He noted hr reddened eyes. "How long have you been experiencing dryness of your eyes?"

"About a year. I have these." She pulled her eye drops from the pocket of her robe and showed them to him.

Greg did not take them. "How much water do you drink during the day –with breakfast, lunch, dinner – in between?"

"Two glasses with every meal and several glasses through-out the day."

"Before or after meals?"

"During."

Greg flashed a look at Wilson, and then said to her "I need to examine the sides of your face and your throat."

"Please do as you need to, doctor."

It was the second time she had addressed him by his former professional title and Wilson was somehow proud of her. Of being her friend and that she was his fiend - and probably now Greg's as well. He supposed he should not be surprised by her liberal attitude. The Principle might have been cast into Law but it was never meant to be a moral guide.

Greg took a few moments to feel alongside her jaw and even pressed his fingers into her cheeks on both sides of her face. She flinched once or twice. "Does it hurt your cheeks or jaw to brush your teeth and how tired have your been lately?" He asked.

"It bothers me a little, yes, and I was in the hospital for fatigue – exhaustion my doctor said."

"Your doctor is an idiot."

Osuna made no reply to that and Wilson bit his lip, hoping Greg did not go so far as to begin insulting everyone who worked for her. People didn't usually question the president's judgment when it came to whoever she chose for her cabinet and official house-hold staff.

Greg took both her hands in his and felt her fingers, gently palpating the knuckles. "It's warm in here but your hands are cold and a bit swollen."

"Yes. I have cold hands. Is that unusual?"

"Could be. Did you sleep last night?"

"Very well, thank you."

"But you're fatigued anyway – I can see it in the way you're carrying yourself. Your shoulders are stooped forward. I've never seen you stand that way in any picture anywhere – even during a trip out of the country."

"Well, I have been over-tired, my doctor says – "

"- he says wrong. Let's ignore him from now on. Headaches?"

Osuna frowned a little but she seemed intrigued by him. "Often. Do you know what's wrong with me?"

Greg dropped her hands and took one step back, his examination complete. "Yes. I'll need a strip test but that's just to confirm it. You have Sjogren's syndrome and you're already manifesting secondary progression. The dry eyes and mouth, the cold hands, swollen at the second joints which suggest connective tissue damage, the systemic fatigue, the discomfort in your face and jaw – caused by inflamed, slowly hardening sailaden glands in case you were wondering, are all symptoms of it."

Osuna took the news well. She did not, Wilson suspected, understand what it was. "What is this Sjogren's syndrome doctor?"

"It's an immunological disorder, usually genetic – meaning you inherited the genes that cause it from your parents – very treatable if caught in the early stages. Yours has progressed a little farther than that but I think with the right immunomodulatory drugs we can arrest any more damage."

Greg found a chair and sat heavily.

Osuna sat with her hands folded in her lap. "I see. Perhaps you'll give a list of the required drugs to my staff pharmacist? I'll begin whatever treatment you prescribe immediately."

Greg nodded. He pulled out a list already written up on a slip of presidential note-paper. "Already did that, ma-am."

Osuna accepted the paper. Four different drugs were listed, the names of which she could not pronounce. "I must say, doctor House, I am impressed but how did you-"

"-From different things Wilson described to me plus your age and the symptoms I already knew about, I already had my suspicions."

"I'm grateful to you, doctor." She said to him and then turned to Wilson. "It seems I have a debt. Now, James, what may I do for you and your friend?"

XXXXX

Greg lay back with his arms under his head, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the pain meds to kick in. They were non-narcotic and he had his doubts whether they would numb it enough, and had argued for many minutes about getting some of the good stuff. But Wilson was adamant. "Where we might end up, there isn't going to be any "good stuff"."

Someone slipped an envelope under the bedroom door and knocked once. "Ma-am has sent this along to you." It was Mister Kaul's voice. "It is a communiqué from Senator Munroe."

Wilson tore it open and read its contents. "In addition to resigning my seat," He told Greg, "I have to personally endorse Munroe's bid for the presidential race." It was unthinkable. Munroe was a bigot. It had to be the reason he showed up at the jail to rescue him. For a favour in return. Wilson read the rest of the note. "He's also offered to escort us north, out of Union territory, to a safe place. He has distant non-Union relations there who'll put us up until we can find somewhere to live. He's paying them money for it."

This new idea of escaping north was sounding less and less inviting. Wilson stuffed the note back into the envelope and looked over at Greg. "I don't know what to do. Can we really do this? Run away? I-I'm..." He wanted to say scared. He wanted another alternative.

Greg saw the distress in his friend's watering eyes. "You don't have to do this, you know."

As they stared silently at each other, a second envelope was slipped under the door. Wilson opened it up, too, his fingers shaking. It was so easy to make boasts of freedom and unity when you were sitting pretty on a plush sofa with a plate of food in your hand and a warm hearth at your feet. It was quite another when the reality of setting out alone onto a virgin road faced you head-on.

Greg took the letter from his lover's trembling fingers and read it over himself silently first. "This is from Osuna. She says that her second term will be up in four months and then someone else will sit in the presidential chair. She knows that person could be Thomas or Munroe. She asks you to stay and fight with her for change instead of running away. We could come and live on her family ranch and work for our keep. Help her." Greg looked at him.

Wilson, ashamed of his weakness and of the tears in his eyes, quickly wiped them away. He read the letter for himself. "If I stay..." He said, afraid to look at Greg.

Greg understood of course. "It means I won't be free. But we'll still be together. Maybe you can do something good."

Wilson, his heart hopelessly torn, asked "But I mean, are you willing to do that? I made you a promise..."

"Easily forgotten. Look, I'll never make it out there on my own anyway," He tapped his thigh with the handle of his cane, "with _this _holding me back."

Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat. "You could be her official doctor. The ex-president's personal physician."

"We'll see. If she pays me enough."

Wilson saw the look in Greg's eyes and new he was only half teasing. "Are you sure? It could take years to make any significant headway. You wouldn't be able to travel or leave the property..."

"Nothing is ever free, Wilson." He reminded him. "Besides, being looked after twenty-four-seven doesn't sound like it sucks."

Almost anything was better than endorsing Munroe to run the country. "No, it doesn't." It was the first time in weeks that Wilson felt like smiling.

XXXXXX

"Good morning."

Senator-Doctor James Wilson addressed his fellow politicians. "I have spoken often on the benefits of Ration Principle as it has been applied to our modern life within the letter of the Law. Now I would like to speak for a few moments on the principle of human reason. According to Aristotle, happiness is the only good end that any must desire. Happiness exists for its own sake and it is for the sake of happiness that we desire good ends or do positive actions. The pursuit of happiness, a notion embedded in our most sacred constitution, is not a momentary pleasure but an all-encompassing activity of living that must come from each human being for his or her own benefit and for the over-all benefit of all in our nation. We use our human reasoning to determine the principles by which we live and it is particular to the human being to be happy, so we attempt to live within principles guided by reason and for the goal of happiness.

"I am speaking of the human soul and its in-born need to excel, to display virtue and rational thought over the course of a whole lifetime. For happiness there are things that we require – the goods that matter such as family, love, hope – those are the means to an end; that end being happiness. None of this can be achieved independently of one another. Anyone who has befriended someone, or found satisfying work, or fallen in love, understands this. We flourish when we are – when we have the freedom to practise happiness – for it is a purposeful activity. It is a choice but only if we have the freedom to choose. Millions, however, by present law do _not_ have that choice.

"I say these things to you today in order to explain my reasons for this next announcement: In order to work for the freedom of all, to find ways to explore positive modifications to Rational Principle, and to work to locate and implement alternative methods of survival for our great nation independent of The Principle, I am resigning my seat as Senator of New Jersey. I, along with other like-minded groups, will in the near future actively support those presidential candidates who hold to these same principles – the principles of a fair and unbridled nation where everyone - as they has been sworn in the beginning and by their very birth into it - may pursue freedom and happiness as their given right within the borders of the Union that has survived this crisis, is still forging ahead and will continue to be a nation of the Free. This birth-right is, in my opinion, the greatest principle of all, and the one we should – we _must_ - be working to uphold. Thank you."

XXXXX END


End file.
